Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat

by M. K. Wren

  “Charlie—”

  But anything Travers had to add was cut off as Duncan slammed the receiver down and started for the door. He didn’t even glance at Edwina Leen.

  CHAPTER 27

  The ticking of his pulse, metronomic, and paradoxically regular, parceled out the time.

  Conan listened, body and mind locked in numb paralysis, to the lonely, baleful moaning of the marker buoy. Then abruptly, the metronomic beat of his pulse quickened, and he raised his bound wrists, his hands cramped into fists, pulling at the ropes in helpless rage and frustration.

  It was the pain that finally subdued the panic; the pain radiating from his shoulder until it impressed itself upon his consciousness, acting as a sort of cauterizing agent. He forced himself to relax, letting his balled fists uncurl, loosening the tension on the ropes. Panic was another luxury; he couldn’t afford it now. He had to think.

  The ropes. He had to find some kind of instrument, some sharp edge. But he wasn’t familiar enough with fishing boats to know what might be available that would serve his purpose.

  He was tightening again, moving to the edge of panic, and again, he forced himself to relax—and to think. The marker buoy formed a counterpoint to his pulse, meting out the passing time. Think. The ropes weren’t his primary problem. The gun. There wasn’t time to worry about the ropes. The gun in Demetriev’s pocket.

  The high cards; the gun and his hands tied in front. Perhaps that would be enough. It had to be. And another high card he hadn’t taken into consideration—darkness.

  Zimmerman couldn’t see into the back of the boat, and he was intent on the trawlers. And the roar of the motor; another high card.

  Perhaps on some level he was aware of the hopeless odds against reaching that gun alive, but he wouldn’t allow himself to recognize them now. He couldn’t, unless he was willing to surrender himself to despair.

  He began to slide to his left toward the port railing. Demetriev and Zimmerman were on the left side of the pilothouse. If he could get close enough without being seen, and if Demetriev was alert enough to react at the right time…

  He reached the railing, his breath coming fast and hard, and he was still capable of awareness of pain; but it was a peripheral awareness. His mind was too intently concentrated on his objective, and on Zimmerman.

  Then he froze as both Zimmerman and the pilot turned and looked back.

  But after a moment, he realized they weren’t looking at him, but at something beyond the boat. He heard their voices in a brief exchange that was unintelligible against the roar of the motor.

  But if the words were unintelligible, something in their tone still came through; an urgency, even anxiety. And it was in their posture and gestures, too. He watched intently as Harrison again turned to look backward, then leaned closer to Joe for hurried consultation.

  At length, Conan risked a look over the stern, pushing himself up cautiously and twisting around. Behind them, in the darkness between the Sea Queen and the scatter of shore lights, he saw two closer lights; red and green. Running lights.

  He slid back down against the stern, unconsciously holding his breath as he looked up toward the pilothouse. But Joe was still staring back at the second boat, his body tense and rigid.

  Conan’s breath came out in a long, tremulous sigh. Perhaps the odds were turning in his favor; one of his high cards might be about to pay off.

  Perhaps.

  But whether that card paid off or not, the other boat offered a distraction. The gun. That was the only card that counted now. He reached up for the railing to pull himself into a crouching position, but again froze at a shout from Zimmerman. And again, it wasn’t directed at him. It was a command to Harrison, and without further warning, the pilot turned the wheel abruptly to the right, and gunned the engine to full speed.

  The Sea Queen heeled over, sending Conan sliding across the deck, then she seemed to leap forward, trembling under the full power of the motor.

  She was quartering the swells, rocking sickeningly from side to side, her curved flanks cutting under the waves, sending cascades of icy water washing across the deck. The motor roared and spluttered irregularly, sounding eerily like the hoarse panting of a fleeing animal. Conan flailed helplessly in the darkness, chilled by floods of sea water, and finally managed to grasp the port railing again. He clung desperately to the wet metal, wondering what had precipitated this full-throttle flight—and wondering if the Sea Queen was equal to the battering quartering swells and the tearing vibrations of the engine.

  But for the moment, he could only cling to the railing, gasping at the periodic onslaughts of water as the boat smashed into the oncoming waves. He closed his eyes against another flood of frigid water as the boat heeled into a swell. But he was only dimly aware of the cold and the pain.

  For the first time since the Sea Queen left Holliday Bay, he was beginning to feel some real hope.

  *

  For what seemed an interminable length of time, the Sea Queen plunged ahead, full speed, with Harrison fighting the wheel all the way. Then, as suddenly as it began, the breakneck flight ended. Silence and darkness descended abruptly as the motor ceased its roaring, and a few seconds later all the lights went off. In the echoing quiet, the boat swooped down the back of a swell into the trough, the water washing against the hull in a silken rush. Then softly in the distance, the bleak call of the marker buoy sounded, and from the opposite direction—somewhere behind them—the faint rumble of a motor.

  But the motor was a long way off now.

  Conan crouched against the railing, trying to adjust his senses to the sudden absence of sound and light, remembering his equally silent and lightless vigil aboard the Josephine. And he had no doubt Zimmerman’s purpose was the same as his had been: to escape detection.

  Harrison had taken a quartering tack northwest, and the blackness wasn’t entirely devoid of light. The trawlers. Conan looked over the railing, feeling a fleeting dizziness. That chain of lights wasn’t so distant now; it seemed to bead the entire horizon, to fill his span of vision.

  The gun.

  He had to get to Demetriev.

  But he might as well have been blind in the darkness; now he couldn’t even be sure where the old man was. He could only assume he was still in the pilothouse, as he could only assume Zimmerman and Harrison were still there.

  Voices. He tensed, his eyes focusing unconsciously, and uselessly, in the direction of the pilothouse.

  Harrison was speaking, his voice low and indistinct, as if he were intimidated by the overwhelming silence and darkness. Conan could understand only a few words, but he caught the last of Zimmerman’s equally low-pitched response.

  “…wait and see if he’s following us. Now, relax, damn it.”

  The pilot’s reply was lost, but from his edgy tone, it was obvious he wasn’t close to relaxation.

  Conan waited a few seconds longer until Harrison and Zimmerman resumed their conversation, then began edging his way along the railing toward the pilothouse, crouching low, remembering that the shore lights were behind him.

  He made slow progress, waiting through the silences, and even as he concentrated on that intermittent exchange, he was listening to the rumble of the boat behind them. And it seemed to be getting louder.

  There was still no sound to help him locate Demetriev, but he had no doubt he’d be close to Zimmerman.

  The pilot’s voice knifed through the quiet.

  “Listen, I don’t give a damn what you say, I ain’t just sittin’ here! That boat’s closin’ in!”

  “Shut up!” Zimmerman snapped, his voice rising in volume with Harrison’s. “Can you tell if it’s the Coast Guard cutter?”

  A brief silence, then, “No…I don’t think so. Lights are too high in the water. But it’s gettin’ closer—”

  “Don’t panic. It’s just another fishing boat.”

  “Leavin’ the bay this time of night?”

  Conan listened intently. He’d covered we
ll over half the distance to the pilothouse, and the voices were uncomfortably close, and getting closer with every hesitant, cautious step.

  Zimmerman said irritably, “You just calm down. He can’t do a damn thing if he does see us. If you just sit tight, he’ll probably go on past us.”

  “Yeah, and he might not.” There was a movement and a few shuffling footsteps. “Hey! Damn it, look at them trawlers!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “They’re takin’ off! They’re gonna leave us here holdin’ the bag! The dirty—”

  “You damned fool, they’re just scattering. It’ll make it harder for anybody to find us. Now, shut up!”

  “They’re leavin’, damn it! And that boat. I ain’t waitin’ any—”

  “Harrison, I said shut up, or so help me, I’ll blow your brains out and run this leaky tub myself!” A short silence, cadenced with the sound of heavy breathing. “You settle down. I’m going back and check on Flagg; it’s been too damned quiet back there. Where’s that flashlight?”

  A few seconds later, Conan heard heavy footsteps moving along the opposite railing and recognized a golden opportunity—or a last chance. If Demetriev was still by the side wall of the pilothouse…

  Harrison’s voice was shrill with panic.

  “I ain’t waitin’! I ain’t waitin’ for nothin’!”

  “Harrison, what the hell—?”

  But Zimmerman’s voice was drowned in a roar as the Sea Queen’s engine burst into life again, and the boat plunged sideways into an oncoming swell.

  Conan careened against the railing, struggling to keep his footing against the wall of water pouring over the deck. He was dimly aware of a muffled, choked cry from the stern, then he staggered as a heavy body crashed into him.

  “Help—help me!”

  Demetriev.

  He reached out for the physicist’s hurtling body, but with his bound hands, only managed to catch his arm, then as the Sea Queen pitched again, they both sprawled to the deck.

  But even before the boat began to right herself, Conan was groping for Demetriev’s pocket. He almost had his fingers on the gun, when the boat heeled again.

  “Harrison!” Zimmerman’s voice, screaming against the throb of the motor. “Damn you—stop!”

  Conan’s fumbling fingers closed on the gun.

  “Doctor, are you all right?”

  He leaned down to hear Demetriev’s weak reply, at the same time taking advantage of a brief lull in the pitching of the boat to pull himself and the old man upright.

  “I…I am all right. Do not worry—”

  “Harrison, you damned fool!” Zimmerman again. Conan listened intently, trying to locate the sound of that voice. The opposite railing. He was moving toward the pilothouse.

  “Doctor, get back in the stern. And keep down.”

  The motor roared as the Sea Queen crashed into another swell, and Conan lost Demetriev. He could only hope he was capable of working his way back to the stern; it was all he could do to keep himself on his feet. At least Joe would be having the same problem.

  The pilot—he had to stop Harrison. He clung to the railing with his left hand, the gun gripped in his right. His hands were numb; the ropes.

  A beam of light streaked across the pilothouse, momentarily, revealing Harrison hunched over the wheel.

  Flashlight. Zimmerman’s flashlight.

  Conan dropped to the deck as the beam focused on him, the rush of air from the bullet coming simultaneously with a sharp cracking sound.

  The Sea Queen groaned as she swooped into another deep trough, spinning at the bottom and meeting the next swell broadside. The crest of the wave broke over the railing, sweeping across the deck.

  “Flagg!” Another shot smashed into the planks.

  He fought his way to the railing and pulled himself up, then fell up to the deck again as the flashlight homed in on him. He rolled sideways, then brought his arms up, steadying the gun.

  At his second shot, the flashlight exploded into darkness. He heard a cry of pain, but didn’t take time to assess the damage. He made it to his feet before the boat heeled into the next trough, and clung to the railing as another wave flooded the deck. And he knew his disequilibrium was more than the movement of the boat now. Dizziness. But he had to hold on.

  He was vaguely aware of a new sound—a strange whirring, beating sound—but he wasted no time trying to identify it. He lunged for the pilothouse, falling against the side wall as the boat heeled again.

  “Harrison, stop the engine!”

  The pilot didn’t seem to hear that shout. He was losing control of the boat, fighting the wheel, all the while babbling incoherently. Conan braced himself and jammed the gun against his side.

  “Stop her, Harrison! You’ll sink this damned—”

  “No—no—don’t shoot!” The wheel began spinning uncontrollably. “Don’t kill me! Don’t—”

  “Harrison, for God’s sake, the engine—turn off the engine!”

  Conan reached out and caught the wheel with his left hand, grimacing at the effort, almost losing his grip on the gun. The ropes cut into his wrists, and he was chilled with a new assault of dizziness at the pain in his shoulder.

  “Harrison—”

  The pilot was still stammering, fumbling for the ignition switch. The boat angled into another wave, and together they fought to control the wheel.

  When the motor ceased its wracking vibration, Conan sagged back against the wall, letting Harrison take over, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

  The sound. That beating whir…

  For a moment, he thought it was in his head, but a wind moved around him that wasn’t a sea wind, and almost directly overhead, flashing red lights.…

  The helicopter.

  It had to be the Coast Guard helicopter. And behind the Sea Queen, toward the shore, running lights; two sets— The flash of light and sharp crack came from the starboard railing, and the window of the pilothouse exploded. Joe Zimmerman wasn’t out of the game yet.

  Conan dropped to the deck, then took cover behind the side wall of the pilothouse as another bullet slammed into the instrument panel.

  “Flagg! Damn you—where are you?”

  Conan looked out from behind the wall, his eyes straining into the darkness where he heard Zimmerman’s thick, slurred voice. Then a scuffling movement in front of him; another gunshot and a yelp of pain.

  “Don’t shoot! Don’t—it’s me! Don’t—”

  “Harrison?” Joe’s voice was closer now. “Damn it, get out of the way! Where’s the old man?”

  “I—I don’t know! Don’t shoot me!”

  Conan looked up, shivering in the wind of the ’copter’s rotors, directing an urgent, wordless plea to the men in that roaring mantis machine—hurry.…

  “Flagg!”

  A series of shots erupted from the starboard railing, staccato pulse beats of light and sound, aimless and random, expressions of rage.

  Conan watched that explosion of frustration, but his gaze kept shifting to the helicopter. It was slowly descending, and now a new sound was added to the cacophony of beating rotors: the wail of a siren.

  And the wail was echoed in Zimmerman’s long-drawn howl of stymied rage as the darkness vanished in a cold glare of spotlights from the ’copter.

  The light was a sensory shock. Conan recoiled, reeling with a sensation near vertigo as the light threw everything around him into sharp, surrealistic relief. He heard a voice blaring from a loudspeaker, but he was incapable of assimilating the words.

  The intensity of the light drowned all color. Every detail was limned in harsh blacks and whites: Harrison cringing on the deck only a few feet away, clutching a bleeding arm; Demetriev crouched against the stern, looking somehow broken, like a wounded bird; and across the boat, Zimmerman, almost unrecognizable in his vengeful frenzy, backed against the railing like an animal at bay, the left side of his face smeared with blood.

  Conan pulled himself to his feet and moved o
ut from behind the pilothouse.

  “Joe!” He heard the amplified voice from the helicopter, urgent and demanding, but still could make no sense of the words, and he knew Zimmerman was beyond hearing them. “Joe—it’s all over!”

  Zimmerman’s gaze shifted and the full intensity of his berserk rage was focused on Conan; he raised his hand, the gun coming up, aimed directly at Conan’s heart.

  But he didn’t fire.

  With a shutter-click flick, he seemed to assess and dismiss him, then turn with inevitable purpose toward the stern—to Demetriev. And without a split-second’s warning, his gun came around, aligned with Demetriev’s frozen face, and Conan saw his finger tightening on the trigger.

  Conan reacted, reflexes impelling nerves and muscles without a conscious decision. There was no time.

  His hands came up, the gun aimed and fired—straight at Zimmerman—all in half the blinking of an eye.

  The .32 seemed to explode in his hand.

  And that explosion went on and on—not echoing, but caught in a sensory time lapse; an intensely heightened awareness of the finest detail of every passing millisecond.

  He saw Zimmerman’s body jerk spasmodically even as his finger closed on the trigger of the .45. And the gun recoiled, leaping from his hand, the bullet smashed into the stern, a foot from Demetriev’s head.

  Zimmerman falling, toppling. And he turned in that endless descent and stared at Conan, his mouth open and moving as if he were trying to speak. Then his jaw went slack, and his body crumpled with the impact of collision against the unyielding surface of the deck.

  CHAPTER 28

  Conan had known, even as Zimmerman fell, that he was dead. Still, he searched for some faint beat of life. Finally, when it was obvious there was no trace of a pulse, he reached across the body with his left hand and gripped the railing, sinking under the weight of a sudden, debilitating weakness.

  He wondered vaguely why he should feel anything for killing this man. And he wondered, too, how human beings ever inured themselves to killing other human beings.

  He looked across the deck toward Demetriev. Two Coast Guardsmen were bending over him, one administering oxygen. The helicopter still hovered overhead, a rope ladder dangling, swaying in the wind of the rotors. That aural assault was still numbing, but mercifully the sirens had stopped.