SILENT GUNS

by Bob Neir

  “Get up,” Graves ordered. “Put a light on him, Harper.”

  Harper swung the flashlight. As the figure roused himself, Graves tore off his mask.

  “I’ve seen this guy, before,” Harper exclaimed.

  “Schiller,” Graves said. “What are you doing here?”

  “It wasn’t bullshit, was it?” Schiller screamed at Harper, his face contorted. “Powder and weapons. Powder bags for a 16-inch gun. The Missouri, ain’t it?” Schiller hissed like a snake. “Rifles and machine guns, too! A big time hit, ain’t it? What’s the deal?” Schiller disgorged a horrible, screeching sound. Graves snapped. Schiller was too surprised to dodge the blow. Harper watched in amazement, but it all happened in an instant. Graves took one step forward, cocked his arm; his hand screwed into tight fist and exploded it into Schiller’s face. Schiller’s face flamed spattered red, his breathing short and quick. His feet left the deck, his head spun as his fingers clawed the air. Schiller landed flat on his back, spread-eagled across the powder bags. His eyes were closed, his jaws and lips hung slack. Harper walked softly over and stood looking down at Schiller. Blood was trickling from the corners of his mouth, his teeth bared like a wild animal. He bent over and picked up the knife. He asked, gently, “Are you O.K., Schiller?” Schiller lay still, his back pressed against a stanchion breathing hard.

  “We’d better tie him up,” Harper found himself cursing, his mind filled with nameless words.

  “Leave him be. He ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Graves waved him off, “He ain’t gonna talk to nobody. Now, we got two guys to watch.” He made a disgusted grimace and whistled between his teeth, “We shoulda stayed on the Missouri.”

  “Maybe he’s not alone,” Harper persisted.

  “Jesus!” Graves eyed him bleakly.

  “Best we sit tight,” Harper said dryly. “Take our chances, if there is, he’ll come looking for him. Tie up Schiller and gag him, just in case.” Graves nodded. Hauser paced the deck, snarling.

  “Hey! Schiller. How’d you like to be dog food?”

  They exchanged glances and laughed.

  “Naw! Hauser’d get sick.”

  “Good dog, Hauser.”

  Hauser wagged his tail.

  * * *

  “Let’s skip out,” Lisa said as they finished dinner at the Scarlet Tree. She was doing her lips. She stopped for a moment, lipstick in hand and said, “Do you mind? We could go to my place for an after-dinner drink.” Trent smiled. “Sounds like a super idea.” He stared at her with concern. She had carried the evening’s conversation: he listened, intently. She never once mentioned Maxie. “Back to your apartment we go.”

  As she laughed, his anxiety lessened.

  She picked up her handbag and they left.

  “Tony, you are my man of mystery,” Lisa said, looking up at him coyly as they stood by the fireplace. She set her drink on the mantle. Her voice was light, her mood soft and playful. She shrugged. “I haven’t been honest with you, have I?”

  “You did deal my ego a terrible blow when you told me it was Maxie you were interested in, not me.”

  Lisa feigned disbelief. “Oh! Posh! You are a tease. I admit I did track you down. I knew where and when you would be meeting Madden. And, I admit I was callous; but, now…” They touched hands. “Maxie is married, you know; but I am better looking.” I tried to be gentle. She laughed lightly. Trent eased himself back, not seeming to mind at all that half his drink was now on his jacket sleeve.

  “I only mislead myself,” she said, “Contacting Maxie was just another job, but then you got in the way.” He put his arms around her and drew her tight. She came to him willingly. Her closeness fanned the flames of desire. Yet, inside, Lisa set off a small warning alarm. Was she still using him? Yet, he did nothing to fend off her growing emotional dependence. His weakened defenses warned him he was falling deeper in love with her. Looking up at him, she reached and turned down the lights. “I like it better darker,” she laughed softly. His hands found hers and he drew her roughly to him. Under the flat of his hands, he felt her back go rigid for a moment then pliable as she moved against his body. Her hard, full pointed breasts pressed against his chest through the thin fabric. Her mouth softened. “You’re very quiet.” she said, her lips searching his. “What are you thinking about?”

  “What do you think?”

  “You really loved Myrna, didn’t you?” A sentimental sadness chased her features, her eyes dreamy.

  He looked at her emptily. “In truth, I did. Very much.”

  “That’s lovely, very romantic,” she said, her eyes misty. He could feel her breathing lightly, almost sobbing in his ear.

  “I blame myself,” he trembled.

  “How noble,” she exclaimed, sweetly. “Do you think of me as you did Myrna?” Her voice was distant, almost child-like. “Eddie left me, you know, he died and left me… abandoned me.”

  He unbuttoned her blouse.

  She pressed him away. His breath stopped, a heartbeat stilled. He wanted to hold her, to tell her everything. His plans, fears, and hopes: all the things he held bottled up inside, dreams he not dared confide. She turned her face away as if to shield from him what was deeply felt in her heart. He leaned forward, kissed her cheek lightly. “I need you.” His tone was of boyish innocence.

  She did not hear.

  Lisa drew a deep breath. “Maxie told me a great deal.” A veil of coldness passed between them, her voice turned unemotional and flat. Lisa had shifted gears. Trent was aghast. His mind clicked over. What had he said? What had he done? He blurted out, “What did Maxie say?”

  “He told me the money is in San Francisco and that he’ll take me to it,” Lisa relaxed slightly.

  Trent sighed. “Do you trust him?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” she seemed peevish.

  “No reason,” he grinned awkwardly.

  He slipped his arm around her.

  “Maxie asked only to finish his job on the Missouri. He didn’t want to let you down.”

  “Did you agree?”

  “My client did. But, they either get the money or that will be the end of Mr. Hirsch.” There was a sharp edge in her words.

  “Does Maxie understand the terms?”

  “Yes.” She broke away. Her lips parted to form words and the cold veil fell away. “You don’t despise me, do you?” She threw herself against him, burying her face in his chest. He felt her tremble, sob deep sobs. He held her tightly, unable to think or speak. She said tenderly, “Can you forgive me?” She lifted herself on her toes and kissed him on the mouth. “Let me make it up to you,” she purred softly. She unbuttoned his shirt: he unfastened her skirt and let it drop to the floor. Tossing aside the rest of her clothes, he stood back admiring her. “You have a beautiful body, Lisa,” Lisa challenged his manhood. Lisa could not know it would be their last evening together. The moment had to last a lifetime.

  * * *

  Newby perched at the head of the Helga’s gangway. Hauser had curled up asleep at his feet. His mind still reeled. He wiped his mouth and busied himself examining his crumpled clothes. He felt the stubble on an unshaven face rasp against the back of his hand. His face was sickly with deep marks of strain and fatigue. Small tears of yellow mucus gathered at the corner of his eyes.

  “Schiller’s tied up in the aft hold,” he jumped up and blurted out as Trent came aboard. Trent compressed his lips in a “What else?” Without asking, Newby added, “And Harper’s missing.” The words hit Trent like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. “And, Graves and Hirsch?”

  “They’re on guard duty.”

  “Has Madden shown up?”

  “No sign of him since we got in.”

  Graves ambled forward. “Harper and me caught Schiller in the aft hold. He went right to the powder bags. He figured it out. It was all Harper’s fault. Shooting off his mouth damn near got me killed.”

  “Where’s Harper now?”

  “He pissed me off, so I popped him one,” Graves
said. “He got mad and took off. I couldn’t leave Schiller and the Captain to chase after him, so I let him go. Good riddance! He’s a fruitcake.”

  “Did he take anything with him?”

  “No. He just lit out.”

  “Had he been drinking?”

  “Not so as I could tell.”

  “Now, you go find him.” Trent spoke softly, without heat, but there was fire in his eyes. Anger, bitterness or just self-pity, Harper had failed completely to make himself part of the team, as if by admitting his weaknesses, he might expose his vulnerability. Yet, those weaknesses were there to see. As hard as they tried, the men did not embrace him, odd-man out.

  Trent wiped his forehead as he strode aft. Schiller laid in the hold, a crumpled figure, mouth gagged, hands and feet securely tied. Blood trickled from under the gag splotching his chest red. Graves’ foot decorated his cheek with a raw imprint. Schiller’s craggy features stood out, his face a thin, hollow-cheeked puddle of flesh. A long, pointed nose protruded from amongst a collection of pockmarks and red scars. Schiller’s eyes darted nervously. His body radiated tension, alertness, coiled to strike, a rattlesnake without a rattle, Trent mused, as Webster might have written: Schiller—a small and slight animal, with the quickness of a ferret and the inborn survival instincts endemic to wild animals. Graves and Schiller thrived in a world where force and senseless brutality ruled. Trent ripped off Schiller’s gag. Filthy expletives poured from his mouth; a human form of expression denied the animal kingdom. Tempted to jam the gag back in, he let him mouth off until he tired.

  “Are you done?” Trent demanded.

  “No! You bastard, but you are!” His hard voice reeked of malice.

  “You’re in no position to say.”

  “Screw you! I’ll get loose.” Schiller rolled over, shaking and tearing at his bonds.

  “Don’t bother. I’m going to let you go,” Trent said. Stunned, Schiller stopped struggling, his mouth hard set with doubt. “But not just yet.” Schiller spit out. “Why all the hardware?” His eyes widened, and then narrowed into thin slits. “It’s for money, ain’t it…real big money! Yeah!” Schiller’s mind, always running in devious channels, clicked over. “It has to be,” he exclaimed. “But, how?”

  Trent laughed, “You don’t have all the answers, do you?”

  “I’ll take a cut,” Schiller shot back. “It’ll buy my silence.”

  “You leave me speechless!”

  “Why not? I don’t go back on deals.”

  “You mean, like the one you had with the Captain.”

  Schiller snarled.

  “You’re going to let me loose so you can kill me? Ha! And Larsen, too.” Schiller laughed a sickening laugh, “I’m a real problem, ain’t I. My offer is still good.”

  Trent felt his face tighten, “Schiller, you talk too much.” He stuffed the gag back in his mouth, climbed out of the hold and banged the hatch shut. “Secure it.” Maxie kicked down the dogs. He was certain Schiller worked alone. Schiller was a shark, a predator, and sharks worked alone, searching out the weak and the crippled. Schiller had picked the wrong victim. The shark would serve him, Trent smiled in silent triumph.

  * * *

  Graves and Newby bailed Harper out of jail.

  The long walk back to the Helga did not improve his disposition. Stomping on board, he kicked at Hauser, who scampered to the upper deck. Graves pushed him through the door to the crew’s cabin. He braced himself to stand erect. Hirsch and Trent sat drinking.

  “Still running, eh! Harper?” Trent said, coldly.

  “He was at the Police Station,” Newby reported. “We checked the bars. Found out about a fight. Fit his description. The cops were fingerprinting him when we got there. We told the cops we were shipping out at 0500 and we had to get him back onboard or he’d be left behind. We paid the fifty-bucks. I guess the cops figured they might get stuck with him. They hesitated, but let him go.”

  Harper dropped his head and stared at the floor.

  “The cops will know who he is by morning,” Hirsch said.

  “Did you tell them what ship?”

  “They didn’t ask.”

  “Good! I hope 0500 is early enough.

  Harper grumbled, said nothing, but held his head down.

  “Harper, you’d better be worth all this trouble!

  ~ * * * ~

  CHAPTER 15

  A diesel engine coughed, then kicked over. Navigation lights flashed on. Lines cast loose in the darkness splashed nearby. A propeller thrashed, and then churned, settling into a steady thump, thump, thump. Maxie set the throttle, latched open the engine room door, wiped his hands on an oily rag, then climbed the ladder to the working deck. He leaned on the rail and watched boathouses and shipyards slowly slip by. The Helga was his good luck omen.

  On course for the Locks, Trent rang down half-speed as the Helga cleared the crowded shoreline and sailed out into Lake Union. Moonlight touching housetop roofs appeared as steps ascending the surrounding hillsides. Under reduced speed, the Helga crept slowly beneath the Aurora Bridge that carried Seattle’s early morning commuters. Lampposts, strung out necklace-like, marked the length of the bridge deck where it spanned the western leg of the Canal. As the Helga pierced the dark abyss that lurked beneath the bridge, Trent rang down one-quarter speed. Way fell off. Astern, to the East, a faint slash of light blue rimmed the peaks of the Cascade Mountains. The smell of land close-by stirred memories of Hampton Roads and Thimble Shoals. Trent unconsciously braced himself, half expecting the Duluth to come charging out of the fog; but it was clear and dark.

  “Lock lights dead ahead,” Graves shouted from the foredeck. The Helga sagged off. The slow, methodical, pulsating throb of the engine was soothing.

  “We have red,” Graves reported.

  The wheelhouse door banged open. Madden and Harper charged in. “Harper’s picked up a weather report. The radio says there’s a big blow coming. They’re shutting down the airports and the Coast Guard is chasing everybody off the Sound. Barometer’s heading down to twenty-nine with 60 knot winds expected from the southwest. Maybe, we should lay over until it blows over.”

  “We have green,” Graves shouted up.

  “The Helga’s a bad water boat,” Trent replied dourly. “Any boat that fishes Alaskan waters is built to take it. Secure for rough weather,” He ordered, his voice calm and resolute. “Timing at the Navy Yard is critical: no delay.”

  “From the radio report, every damn boat is running for shelter,” Harper reported.

  “Deck secured,” Madden reported, dutifully.

  Trent rang down slow ahead.

  “Peter, after we clear the locks, release Captain Larsen.”

  “What about Schiller?”

  “Keep him tied-up, but see he doesn’t choke in his own puke.” Madden nodded, his eyes suddenly very knowing.

  Harper stared incredulously as the Helga moved into the large Lock and lines were passed up. Trent sensed a new, unexplained strength in Harper. Harper’s mind had fired off an order: Get off this stinking tub and away from this crazy Commander and his slave-like second in command. Wash your hands of this suicidal adventure and be rid of the lot: Graves, Madden, Newby, Hirsch, Trent - and good riddance. Harper moved, but his feet held him riveted. As the Helga sailed from the lock, Harper hammered the bulkhead with his fist, swung on his heels and strode out the wheelhouse, slamming the door behind him.

  “Jesus,” Madden exclaimed. “What’s got into him?”

  Trent said, “He saw his chance but he couldn’t take it.”

  Madden’s face was puzzled. “Chance for what?”

  “To jump ship.”

  “Suppose he had. If he talked…”

  “Where would he run to? If he did, I have a gun tucked under my shirt. Either way, Harper had no good option and he knew it.” Madden did a quick double-take.

  Graves entered and sounded off, “Looks like big rollers sweeping up from the southwest. The Coast Guard’s out in force,
they’re turning boats back off the Sound.”

  “We’ve all seen worse.”

  “The Helga isn’t the Missouri, you know.”

  “Take the wheel, Madden. I’d better tend to Schiller and the Captain.” Bracing himself against an unpleasant, pitching motion, Trent left. When he reached the Captain’s cabin, Newby unlocked the door. He entered and said, “Captain, I’m setting you loose,” he reached over and untied his bonds. The Captain’s face flashed defiance as he vigorously massaged his wrists.

  “I don’t get it.” Newby muttered.

  “We’re in for rough weather,” Trent replied. “Besides, the Captain isn’t going anywhere,” he said. “My own ship!” the Captain scowled, his eyes scathing. “Newby, I need Harper on deck, go sub in the galley.” Trent turned away and left.

  Trent un-gagged Schiller but left him chained to the ladder. He noticed that the Helga’s stern did not pitch, but swung in a terrible, rhythmic, sidewise waggle that pivoted her around her stem.

  Schiller kicked and screamed. “Let me offa this scum bucket.