Widow's Tale

by Miller, Maureen A.

  Nodding, he hauled open the door and stepped out into the storm’s wrath.

  The tempest raged at him.

  He raged back.

  "Serena!"

  Echoes.

  Bantam sounds lulled Serena from the ecstasy of slumber.

  "Serena, dammit, I’m talking to you." Simon roared as the ocean poured over the helm.

  It crashed through the windshield and pooled inside the cabin to wrench her from her stupor with a jolting chill that she was still capable of feeling. She swiped her soaked hair back from her face and instinctively looked towards the dim bulb.

  "Go to hell," she choked.

  The laugh was a sordid version of the throaty sound she recalled her maitre de make on hectic nights with a tavern full of boisterous patrons.

  "Probably," he agreed. "Bitch!" Simon’s expletive was aimed at the turbulent sea, tossing the trawler about till the solid wood frame groaned in protest. “The compass is worthless. These controls aren’t the ones Alan taught me. Tell me which way leads back to shore."

  Perhaps the hypothermia had placed her on the brink of madness, but Serena tilted her head back and laughed.

  "Why should I help y-you? Y-you’re just going to toss me into the ocean." Her voice took on a sing-song tease. "Don’t y-you want to j-join me, Simon?"

  Yanking the nine-millimeter from its secure position beneath his belt buckle, Simon jabbed the barrel at her face.

  Serena snorted. "That’s supposed to be a th-threat? You’re going to kill me anyway—actually I’d prefer the gun."

  It seemed like hours that the hull trembled and advanced unsteady through rupturing waves, the windshield useless against the pelt of snow and ice. Morse’s face was cast in a scowl, made all the more daunting by the austere glow of the overhead light. He scanned the radar while Brett remained silent, divvying his anxious glance between the green LCD screen and the wintry void outside.

  "There’s something out there," Morse muttered, distracted.

  "Where?" Brett reached for the door, ready to launch into Hell.

  "Jesus, don’t go out there. Wait, let me get a fix on this. Yeah, see that, it’s about fifty meters away."

  Brett traced the direction of Morse’s finger and read the display, following the throbbing blip on the screen. It matched his pulse. "How long to get there?"

  "It could be two minutes or two hours, depends if the waves cooperate or go against us."

  Brett’s hand cupped the Pasamaquoddy’s shoulder as he uttered hoarsely, "Make it two minutes."

  Simon yanked on the rope, jerking Serena’s body towards him. He cursed and lodged the gun back against his waist so he could use two hands to haul her. "Stand up!"

  On her knees, struggling for any form of sensation in the pads of her sneakered feet, Serena thought fleetingly, don’t you think I would if I could?

  Out of frustration, not by the context of Simon’s command, she grabbed onto the polished wood rail. She used the strength in her arms to compensate for the frailty in her legs. It was a struggle, but she managed to prop herself against the helm, now able to glare in condemnation at her captor.

  "You’re going to die out here, Simon."

  "I see it!" Brett was out the door before Morse could stop him.

  The attack was like nothing Brett had ever experienced before. Tendrils of water licked his boots, trying to topple him. Unruly bursts of wind heaved with successive blows as he felt rooted in the center of a boxing ring rather than clutching the starboard rail of a boat.

  What he saw was a bobbing light, first visible then gone behind a swollen wave. Numbed fingers wrapped around the balustrade as he stood his ground when the ocean loomed and scoured him with brackish water.

  Morse urged the trawler forward and flicked on the external lights so that the horrifying pitch of the waves became visible in a frothing surge around them. Having lost sight of the other boat’s lantern, Brett leaned over the rail and was nearly sucked off the deck. He shook his head, trying to clear his eyes of saltwater.

  "Serena." He shouted into the maelstrom.

  Behind him, a persistent bang on the door drew Brett’s attention. Focusing on the black sea, he clutched the rail and howled out his frustration before retreating into the cabin.

  "Ten yards off the starboard side." Morse shouted over the din of the storm.

  Brett acknowledged with a quick tip of his head and then surged back into the night. Progress was hindered by the water around his feet. Squinting against the siege of ice and rain, he finally located the dancing light only several yards away. The desire to dive off and swim the remaining distance nearly overcame him.

  They were close enough now for Brett to distinguish shadowed silhouettes within the cabin. Simon’s lanky profile was easily identifiable—the other wilting outline, a perhaps injured, but blessedly alive Serena. Insane with the need to reach her, Brett roared back at Morse.

  "Get closer!"

  Morse maneuvered the trawler with care. The ocean could easily ram them into the hull of the other boat, with no more heed than a cow’s tail swatting at a fly. Cursing in a tongue that would probably do his Father proud, Morse stalled the engine as the trawler rocked helplessly towards the shadow of Harriet’s rental.

  All they could do was wait.

  Without the motor, a hollow silence made the storm resonate. Waves provided the crescendo, rain supplied the staccato, and percussion was injected with the loud bang of impact as they collided.

  Brett moved fast, tossing the heavy rope onto the opposite deck. He timed the descent of a wave and launched across both railings. He tumbled onto the slick surface of the other trawler, sliding clear to the aft of the ship before gripping the rope, using it for leverage. Knocked down twice by sequential waves, he struggled upright. He then wrapped the slack of the rope around the balustrade, faltering as the two vessels bumped with each pitch of the sea.

  "Great!" Simon lunged for the wheel, feeling the tug of the other boat root them in place. He screamed his frustration and smacked the helm. Relinquishing the rudder to the pull of the flanking trawler, he spun to face Serena. In a pale hand interweaved by indigo veins, he held the gun.

  "Your boyfriend has arrived."

  Simon appeared rabid. "Which means, my dear, it’s time to cut you loose." Tapping his fingers along his jaw, he mused. "And I guess I’m going to have to kill him too," he chuckled. "But what’s another Murphy in the water?"

  Serena struggled back into the corner, searching in vain for an avenue of escape as Simon loomed with both knife and gun in hand. Numbed enough to merely yelp when his quick motion sliced the blade through the twisted fiber only inches from her fingers, Serena dimly realized she was no longer confined. Wishing that her limbs would be more cooperative, she struggled to crawl, but found that every avenue she pursued, Simon quickly blocked her.

  "How pathetic." He stooped to hoist her up and stumbled unbalanced as a wave struck the vessel.

  Brett hauled open the cabin door and clutched its frame with his free hand. He roared at the scene before him. Simon had an arm wrapped around Serena’s waist, and the other possessed a handgun, which was aimed at her head to enforce compliance.

  Looking at Serena, Brett realized that enforcement was not necessary. Her skin was the color of a frozen pond and her eyes seemed to roll with the pitch of the sea. She futilely struggled for freedom, barely conscious enough to realize he was even there.

  "Serena," he called.

  Her head snapped up. Her stare was blind.

  "Brett?" She blinked.

  "Hey, I hate to break up this emotional reunion," Simon injected, "but I’ve got to dispose of Mrs. Murphy here." He glanced at the gun aimed at him and responded by lifting his own weapon even with Brett’s glare. "And I’ve got to do something about you."

  "That’s fine," Brett replied coolly. "So let her go and deal with me then."

  "No." The gun wavered as the choppy surf pitched the trawler.

  "Simon, you�
�re rigged to our boat." Brett inclined his head to indicate the light outside the window. "You can’t go anywhere. Back on shore, everyone knows what you’ve done—to Alan—so don’t think you’re going to escape from this."

  Simon snarled and secured his hold of Serena as he inched towards the cabin door. "If I kill all of you, I don’t see a problem with me escaping."

  "And the paper that you’ve gone through so much trouble for," Brett pointed out, "what good is it going to do you? As soon as you produce it, you’ll be arrested."

  A flicker of doubt sliced through the cerulean eyes. "The tribe will hide me. They’ll know how to handle it."

  Brett shook his head. Outward, he appeared calm, though his eyes measured Serena, afraid that her condition was deteriorating. His gaze shifted to the automatic that wavered in Simon’s white-knuckled grip.

  "John Morse is in the trawler next to us."

  Simon’s brow jerked. "What the hell is he doing out here?"

  "Protecting his investments. He speaks for both the Pasamaquoddy and the Penobscot when he says that they aren’t interested in Alan’s illicit schemes. If there is going to be a casino, it’s not going to happen outside the law. They feel the repercussions are far too great."

  "But Alan said the government would never approve it without a little intervention on his part. He said that the Indians are only a front anyway—that everything is really run by white businessmen." Simon whined and cursed irritably when Serena struggled against him.

  Frustrated into violence, Simon hoisted the gun in the air intent on cracking it down on Serena’s skull. He hesitated at the lethal chill of Brett’s voice.

  "Don’t do it."

  Simon’s eyes dropped to the weapon aimed at his brow. Staring each other down, Simon figured he had the upper hand, possessing both the gun and Serena.

  "We’re at an impasse here," he declared. "So I’m just going to scoot by you and take little Miss Rena out on deck."

  Serena chose this moment to pool her last remaining strength as she jabbed her deadened foot on Simon’s instep, and then thrust her free arms upwards, cracking them against his extended grip. She watched in satisfaction as the gun arced from his outstretched fingers.

  "No," Simon howled.

  Discarding her, he surged after the spiraling device.

  Brett reacted instantly and would have reached the weapon were it not for the wave that crashed against the hull. It spilled into the open cabin and tossed all three parties off their feet as the trawler pitched onto its side.

  In a whirlwind of limbs and brine, they tumbled in the tight confines, watching with horror as the cabin windows immersed under water. The keening groan of the flanking boat sounded hauntingly muffled in this bleak environment. As the wave continued its trek towards Victory Cove, the trawler rolled lazily upright.

  Dazed, Brett shook his head and spat out saltwater. Wild with concern, he sought and found Serena on her knees, racked by an uncontrollable cough. He reached for her, his arm winding around a body that was deathly cold to the touch.

  Water poured into the cabin from a fatal crack in the hull and the boat began to list astern. In his periphery, Brett noticed his own gun swirling in a whirlpool, and lunged for it.

  Simon’s boot beat him to it.

  Simon loomed, his balding crown slashed with blood, the crimson liquid mingling with saltwater as it spilled in jagged treks down to his ear.

  "New plan." Simon announced in a tremulous voice. "This ship isn’t going to make it," he coughed. "So I’ll just leave you two here and go deal with Morse."

  In the glow of the flanking vessel, Simon must have caught Brett’s condemning glare. "But I don’t trust you," he added.

  Using his automatic to keep Brett at bay; Simon reached for Serena’s arm, startled by the tenacity left in her weak frame. She rooted in place, but lost her foothold on the slick surface, careening into his arms.

  Simon clamped down on both the weapon and Serena. With his head cocked, he considered Brett.

  "Sorry it had to end this way," he whispered. "She really wasn’t too bad. She just made a poor choice in husbands. And as for you," he said, "well you showed promise, but you were just too damn nosy."

  Brett shrugged. He leaned his shoulder against the doorway of the pilot house, dipping his freezing hands into his pockets.

  "Your loss." He smiled.

  In a fluid motion, Brett ripped the plastic eel from his pocket and propelled it with a snap of the wrist, straight at the laceration on the blonde man’s head.

  Simon recoiled, unsure what had launched at him. His hand soared to protect his face as Brett seized the opportunity and vaulted towards him. He caught Simon by the waist and launched them both out onto the sloping deck.

  Simon screamed. Pitched backwards, his hand smacked the fiberglass frame, jolting the gun out of his grip and sweeping it out to sea. Splayed on his back, with Brett’s steel-like arm bearing down on his throat, Simon searched the rigging for something to use as a bludgeon.

  Listing even further now, the two men skated towards the aft of the ship as Serena struggled upright. The ocean swelled closer, inching further onto the deck as it sought to haul the ship down with its weight.

  Inch by inch, the trawler began to wane.

  "Serena!"

  Serena heard her name and spun around. Bright lights pierced her eyes as a murky silhouette beckoned from the nearby trawler. Fearing this unknown entity and seeing Brett in a struggle for his life, Serena crept towards him, trying to avoid a headlong plunge into the rising water.

  For a moment, time seemed suspended. Brett and Simon were lost in the shadows at the far end of the deck, and the ocean stopped its assault long enough to allow her to stand. There was a perverse sense of calm as the screeching gale winds grew faint.

  Using the rail for leverage, she forced her numb feet to cooperate, and managed a few awkward steps.

  Something made her stop. That prickly sensation at the back of her neck—the same paranormal sensation that occurred just before her ghosts arrived.

  Under the beacon atop the bordering trawler, Serena traced the arc of light. In horror she watched the surging black wall of water that came straight at them.

  Her scream was severed by its impact.

  Launched from the deck into the frigid void−suspended in churning darkness for an eternity, she surfaced, choking. She squinted against the onslaught of the storm and located the shifting shadows of the trawlers several feet away. She struggled to kick her feet, and flailed her arms to keep above the waves.

  Cruelly, Serena’s mind flashed to the past. She felt the weight of Alan’s hand on her head. Sputtering for breath, she tilted her neck back so that only her face reached the cold night.

  Two kicks.

  One.

  Serena’s legs stopped moving.

  With a last twitch of strength, her arms fell still.

  Giggles.

  From the murky depths of the ocean, she heard a child laugh. With her limbs motionless, she began to sink and opened her eyes to the black world around her. Beneath the surface, the haunting sounds of merriment were distorted, chaotic, evil.

  Conscious now only of the cold that stole the last bit of air from her lungs, Serena closed her eyes.

  Dimly aware of the hand on her collar, Serena struggled against it, determined not to let Alan’s hand be the instrument of her death. The grip was undeterred. It hauled her to the surface, yanking her from the ocean’s frigid fist. Barely conscious of being sprawled out on deck, or the tender fingers on her chest, or the worried touch of lips on her mouth, Serena chose hibernation in the shadowed caverns of her mind.

  "Breathe honey. You’ve got to breathe."

  It was the voice that infiltrated. Strong. Full of love. A voice that could make the darkness retreat.

  Straining, she waited for it to repeat.

  "Come back to me," it urged, "dammit, Serena."

  Water shot from her lungs as she doubled over in a co
ugh. She swayed onto her side to ease the pressure in her chest and groaned into the icy deck.

  In a ragged voice, she managed, "Ss-since y-you asked so n-nice."

  Morse struggled to aim the trawler into its slip, but shook his head to the man that stood behind him. Realizing the ocean was not going to cooperate, Brett grabbed the slack of the rope and gauged the distance to the pier. Impatient, he cursed and waited for the breakers to stabilize long enough to attempt a jump. As the boat dipped down, he leapt up, alighting on the frozen wood with a skid and a prayer of thanks.

  Once the trawler was secured, Brett turned his attention back to the precious cargo Morse offered up to him.

  Gas heating and ample lights increased the temperature inside Harriet’s guest room. Brett removed Serena’s clothing and took the white terry robe from the shop owner, securing it around Serena. He wrapped a towel about her hair, squeezing the moisture out of the locks.

  Wary, Brett reached out and touched her alabaster flesh.

  So cold. So deathly cold.

  Blue lips trembled, but her eyes remained closed, locking out the world. Locking him out.

  Alone with Serena while Harriet searched for brandy and more blankets, Brett quickly shrugged out of his sodden jacket and shirt, and yanked off his frozen boots, impatiently tossing them into the corner. Discounting his soaked jeans, he leaned over Serena’s inert profile and clutched her robe tighter. He stroked her cheek and brushed his fingers across the faint pulse in her throat. He felt a steady rhythm.

  It was his heart that struggled to beat.

  Don’t take this woman from me.

  "Here!" Harriet barked, tossing a pile of blankets at him.

  Wrapping Serena in a cocoon of downy heat, Brett was troubled by her lack of response. He lifted her to him, tucking her into the shelter of his arms, where he could provide the only warmth he knew how.

  "One of them is for you, Murphy." Harriet’s face was red from exertion and anxiety. She stooped to drape a thermal cover across Brett’s shoulders. "You’re shaking too. Take some of this." She handed him a Bugs Bunny jelly glass filled halfway with amber liquid.