Home Fires

15. FORMAL NIGHT

The flash and bark of Susan’s revolver were lost in the blue fire that roared from Rick Johnson’s back, blinding and gone. As it vanished, he collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

The white-bearded man puffed away an invisible wisp of smoke from the muzzle, his mustache twitching. Susan shrieked and wailed. Chelle and Vanessa scrambled to help Trinity, who had fallen.

Skip went to Rick Johnson, wrestling Johnson’s gun from a hand that death had locked around the grip.

“You won’t need that,” the white-bearded man told him. “But if it makes you feel better, you may keep it.”

Susan gasped, “I’m going to be sick,” and stumbled away; a moment later Lieutenant Brice’s bathroom door clicked behind her.

Trinity moaned and writhed. Her face was burned, her hair scorched and smoking. Skip and Oberdorf got her to her feet and walked her to the elevator, preceded by Chelle and Jerry, who had pushed the button before they got there.

No one spoke as the elevator descended save Jerry, who said, “Wow!” His voice soft and almost reverent. A moment later he got out on C Deck.

Achille was waiting for them when the elevator doors opened on J Deck. “You have bad day, mon.”

“I want to talk to you later,” Skip said. “Chelle, we move pretty slowly. Will you go to the infirmary and tell them we’re coming?”

She nodded and hurried away.

“That’s quite a woman,” Oberdorf said.

“Too much woman for me, I’m afraid, but I’m very proud of her.”

Trinity coughed, retched, and spat.

“Left my tools up there. I’ll have to go back for ’em.”

“I’ll go with you,” Skip told him. “I don’t think you’ll need me, but I need to talk to that old man. To Chelle, too.”

“What about this guy I made new hooks for?”

“Him, too. He was with us when we went up to the signal deck, but gone when I recovered consciousness. I want to ask him about it. Before I do, I’d like to get something for my headache. Will you wait?”

Oberdorf nodded.

After treating Trinity, Dr. Ueda provided two white tablets, stitches, and a transfusion.

* * *

When Skip, Chelle, and Gary Oberdorf returned to the signal deck, there was a seaman with a holstered pistol guarding Lieutenant Gerard Brice’s door. Seeing Skip, he touched his forehead and stood aside. Oberdorf’s toolbox remained where he had left it. Rick Johnson was the sole occupant of the stateroom, and Rick Johnson had been blown in two.

“He looked so human,” Chelle said.

“He was a cyborg.” Skip was on his knees examining him. “If we had weighed him we would have known something was wrong.”

“Or if we’d made him take off his clothes.”

“Right.” Skip rose. “As it was, your mother noticed that he wore a wool jacket in this tropical heat without perspiring. She told me, but I didn’t pay much attention to it. I should have.”

“They did things to me. Hypnotized me or something.”

“Correct,” Skip said.

* * *

When he woke, that “correct” was the last thing he remembered saying. Someone had taken him back to the stateroom he shared with Chelle, removed his clothes, and put him to bed. An Oriental woman, small and no longer young, had leaned over him, perhaps, and given him an injection. Certainly he had been made to swallow pills.

He sat up; and Chelle, who had been shooting energy thieves on his laptop, said, “How are you feeling?”

“Not bad.” He considered. “I don’t think I ought to stand yet.”

“I’ll get your cane,” Chelle said. “Do you know where it is? I haven’t seen it around.”

He shook his head. “We were searching and searching, and I was very tired. I may have left it someplace.”

“Then I’ll buy you one. It may not be a nice one like your old one—I don’t think they’ll have those on the ship. But there’s a drugstore place, and they might have aluminum canes.”

“I don’t want one,” Skip said.

“It’s whether you need one, soldier. If you need one I’ll get you one, only I doubt—” Her phone played and she cursed.

A moment later she said, “It’s for you. I turned yours off, so Mother called me.”

He accepted her phone. “Virginia?”

“Vanessa please, Skip. I’m very happy being Vanessa just now.”

He tried to think of something gracious to say.

“We wish to invite you and our lovely Chelle to dinner tonight. Chelle already knows, this is merely the formal invitation. It would have been nice to have cards printed, but—you know. You’ll come, won’t you? We’ll be terribly disappointed if you don’t.”

“I’m a little disoriented right now, Vanessa. I need to find my feet.”

“Roast lamb, Skip. Nothing facilitates orientation like roast lamb with mint jelly. I’ll see to it.”

Chelle whispered, “Say yes.”

“I … We’ll come of course. It’s very kind of you. If I sound strange, I just woke up. I seem to have slept for hours.”

“You regained consciousness,” Vanessa told him. “Do you remember what day it was when that horrible cyborg shot you? What day of the week?”

“Yes. Wednesday. Wednesday evening, I believe.”

“Wednesday night. This is Saturday, Skip. It’s, um, eleven thirty-one. There were … complications. Chelle knows more about all that than I do, and she’ll tell you everything, I’m sure. Will you come to dinner? Please? We’ve been so worried!”

“Certainly. We’ll be delighted. I think I already said that.”

“You did. I just wanted to make sure. It’s Formal Night. Isn’t that just marvelous? We get a Formal Night before we make port. Richard wants to show everybody that things are finally back to normal, even if he does have to cut the cruise short. You won’t mention Richard tonight? Promise? Nothing about Richard and me?”

“Promise,” Skip said. “May I ask how you knew I was no longer in a coma?”

“I didn’t, really. I talked to Chelle about an hour ago—inviting her, you know—and she told me you were beginning to stir. She suggested I call back in an hour because you might be well enough for dinner tonight. The first-class dining room? Twenty hundred? Would that be convenient?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Charles desires to explain, Skip, and I’ve told him he ought to retain you as his attorney. I think he may face criminal charges, even though it was just a cyborg he killed. Richard isn’t confining him, which I think truly noble of him. Don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, indeed.”

“It’s all settled then. Just the four of us, and we’ll have a nice talk. Twenty hundred. Dinner jacket. You do have a dinner jacket, don’t you, Skip? If you don’t, I can—”

“I do.” Skip said. A moment later he hung up.

“We’ll have a wonderful time,” Chelle told him. “Family! There’s nothing quite like family.”

“A great deal seems to have happened while I was ill.”

“Not really. Things got back to normal, that’s all.” Chelle went to him and kissed his forehead. “Everything was fixed, and you were the one who fixed it. We’ve still got the hijackers locked up and we’ve got wounded on board, but—”

“Including you.”

“Sure, only my arm’s mending nicely, so Dr. Ueda let me go. She let you go, too.…”

“Because I was healing nicely?”

Chelle shook her head. “She didn’t say this, but I think it was really because she couldn’t do anything more for you. She said you might need brain surgery—that isn’t what she called it, but that’s what she meant.”

“I hope you’re joking.”

“And she wasn’t qualified. She’s a pediatrician. Do you really want to hear all this?”

“Absolutely.”

“Aren’t you hungry? You can’t have eaten since Wednesday. I could order something.”

“No. Tell me.”

“You had a blood clot on your brain. That’s what put you in the coma. She gave you some stuff she said might dissolve it, and I guess it did. Only if it didn’t you’d need a brain surgeon.”

“According to a pediatrician.”

“Right. Only she seemed to know what she was talking about. She told me about a patient of hers. He fell off a swing.”

“And tonight I’m going to dinner. Who’s Charles?”

“Smokin’ shit! Don’t tell me she’s found a new guy! Wait a minute.” Chelle’s phone had played again, and she flipped it open. “Hello. What is it? That’s right, he’s fully conscious, sitting up and talking. He’s doing great.” She grinned at Skip. “Okay. As soon as I can get there. Bye.”

“Who was that?”

Chelle rose. “Nothing important. Now listen. You’re supposed to get an intravenous feeding, only they haven’t been in here yet. They’re terribly shorthanded. So order yourself something to eat. And eat it.”

“Chelle—”

“Gotta see a man about a mine. I’ll be back soon.” She breezed out.

Tentatively, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed. For a moment, it seemed that the ship was pitching as it had in the storm, but the moment passed. He felt a little light-headed, his two-cocktails-at-lunch feeling; otherwise, things were quite normal. He shaved, and well before he had finished discovered that he was ravenous. First-class dining would open for lunch at twelve thirty, assuming that “Richard” had really returned the ship to normal.

He showered, and decided he would go down to lunch alone if Chelle had not returned. He could leave her a note.

His gun was beneath the clothing that someone (almost certainly Chelle) had heaped on a chair. It reminded him of his submachine gun. It was under the bed. He—they—would be permitted to take no weapons ashore with them. Chelle would certainly try to smuggle her gun out, and would presumably be arrested for it.

Well, she knew a good lawyer. Selecting her mobile phone brought a tune from the upper right-hand drawer of the bureau.

After dressing, he called the second-class bar. The barman knew Chelle and swore she had not been in that day. The first-class bar in that case.

“This is Chick, Mr. Grison. What can I do for you?”

“I’m trying to find Chelle. Mastergunner Chelle Blue. Do you know her?”

“Sure, Mr. Grison. She was in here with Mr. Tooley. They had a drink and talked, you know. The little table in the corner. They left, oh, maybe five minutes ago.”

Mick Tooley’s phone was out of service. Skip called his building instead and spoke with his manager.

When that call was over, he put on sunglasses and left the bedroom for the veranda, finding the rolling gray-green water of the Atlantic even more conducive to thought than the blue Caribbean had been. “Charles” White (whoever that was) might be prosecuted and Vanessa wanted him retained. Might he himself be prosecuted? He found, oddly enough, that he hoped he would be—and could not explain the hope even to himself. Guilt about Susan? It seemed possible, though the thought woke no shock of recognition. Where was Susan, anyway? Had somebody killed her? If so, who?

How many people had he defended whose sole crime was resisting criminals? A hundred, perhaps? Not so many as that, but the almighty law—which would defend no one but politicians—hated those who defended themselves. His guns, most of all his submachine gun, would be flourished to persuade a jury that he was a menace.

What about Chelle’s gun? With her mother still in danger, she would insist on keeping it.…

There was another veranda beneath his own, the veranda to which Lieutenant Jerry Brice had dropped when he had vaulted over this rail. Beyond that, E Deck. He might—or might not—succeed in throwing his pistol into the Atlantic from here. An athlete might have thrown the submachine gun too. He most certainly could not.

He pushed his pistol into his waistband, where it would be concealed by his untucked shirt. Everyone who had a pistol had been carrying it everywhere when he had been shot, most openly. Was it still like that? Formal Night implied that it was not. His laundry bag, plus a few soiled shirts and shorts, concealed the submachine gun.

It was much harder than he had expected to let that submachine gun drop into the Atlantic, but he did it. After vacillating for a minute and more, he returned his pistol to his waistband. There was plenty of time, after all.

* * *

The barmaid in the tourist-class bar knew Achille but had not seen him that day. “We open at eleven,” she said. “We get maybe half a dozen people then. Mostly they have a quick shot or maybe a double, then they’re gone. You want somethin’?”

Skip shook his head.

“I don’t think that guy with spikes drinks unless somebody else is buying.” She hesitated. “He did yesterday. Showed me his cabin card. It was him all right, only the name wasn’t what everybody calls him. You know?”

Skip nodded. “I don’t suppose you remember the cabin number?”

“Hell, no. But the computer will have it. All I got to do is search yesterday’s charges for a straight shot of white rum.” She touched buttons, scrolled something, and touched more buttons. “Two forty-four E.”

Skip put a five-nora bill into the big brandy glass on the bar. “If you see Achille—that’s the man with hooks and spikes—I’d like you to call me. I’d appreciate it.” He scribbled his mobile phone number on his business card and gave it to her.

“Hey! Skip Grison! You were big when everybody was fightin’ the hijackers. I guess that’s how you got that bandage on your head.”

“No,” Skip told her, “I was shot by a friend.”

No one answered the door of 244E. Where was Achille, and why hadn’t he been in Brice’s stateroom? Where was Susan? For that matter, where was Chelle? You found a thread, Skip reminded himself. You found a thread, any thread, and you pulled.

Out on deck, he called the offices of Burton, Grison, and Ibarra; prompted, he entered his new secretary’s number.

“You have Dianne Field.”

“This is Skip Grison. I’m still on the Rani but I should be back in the office soon, and I need a little inside information. I think you’ll probably have it.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Grison. If I don’t know I’ll try to find out.”

“Has Mick Tooley contracted?”

“No, sir. The girls talk about him all the time.”

“I didn’t think so. Living with somebody?”

“Not anymore, sir. It was some girl from the Sixth District Courthouse, but she got ticked when he went down south to try to get you off that ship, sir. He wanted her to go with him, but she wouldn’t so they split. I don’t remember her name, but Edna knows it. Want me to find out?”

“No.” Skip paused to think. “No, I don’t, Dianne. But if you happen to hear it, make a mental note. You never know.”

“I understand, sir. You sure don’t.”

On the signal deck, Skip was stopped by an officer. “Sorry, sir. No passengers on this deck.”

Skip sighed. “It’s like that again?”

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid it is.”

“I’m a friend of Captain Kain’s. I hesitate to bother him, but I will if I have to. I’m looking for Lieutenant Brice. Is he out of the infirmary?”

“Yes, sir. He’s returned to duty now.” The officer hesitated. “Or anyway, we say he is. He’s still taking it pretty easy. Doctor’s orders.”

“Is he on the bridge?”

The officer shook his head. He was a very young man, Skip decided. Probably not as old as Chelle.

“Then he might be in his stateroom?”

The officer shrugged.

“Let me knock on his door. If he admits me, I’ll be his guest. You know and I know that you ship’s officers entertain guests from time to time. If he’s not there, or will not admit me, I’ll leave without a fuss.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.”

Skip’s shoulders rose and fell. “In that case, you get the fuss, Lieutenant…?”

“King, sir. Tom King.”

Reflecting that he needed to add his new secretary to his list of contacts, Skip dialed the number.

“You have Dianne Field.”

“This is Skip Grison again. I’m still on the cruise ship. It’s the Rani, Canaveral Cruises.”

“Yes, sir. I know.”

“Perhaps you also know that I was shot on Wednesday. Shot in the head.” Covertly, Skip watched Lieutenant King’s face.

“No, sir. Nobody told me that.”

“Then I’m telling you now. I was unconscious as a result of my wound until today, and I believe my faculties may be permanently impaired. The wound I suffered resulted from the negligence of the Canaveral—”

Lieutenant King broke in. “Just a moment, sir!”

“Cruise Line. We’ll ask twenty-five mil. Write a memo summarizing this call and get Bud Young on it. Tell him to call me when he needs more detail, the captain’s name and so forth. Have him get the paperwork ready. We’ll file as soon as I get back.”

“Yes, sir! Right away, sir!”

“Fine. Get on it.” Skip hung up and turned back to Lieutenant King. “Now you. I was shot in Lieutenant Brice’s stateroom. Perhaps you know that. I want access to that stateroom and to Brice, and I want it now. If I don’t get it, that will go into my suit, too.”

Lieutenant King backed away. “I need to talk to the captain.”

“You certainly do.” Skip went to the door of Brice’s cabin and knocked. When Brice opened, Skip said, “You need to talk to me, and I’d like to talk to you. If we talk, I may not file a suit for alienation of affection; but if we don’t, I most certainly will. May I come in?”

Brice nodded, still blocking the doorway. “You’ve been wounded, too, I see. Hit on the head?”

“Yes, by a bullet. I was standing right where you’re standing now. I don’t like threatening you, but I want to come in, have a look around, and ask a few questions.”

Brice stood aside. “Come in and sit down, sir.”

Skip did, taking the only armchair.

Gingerly, Brice lowered himself to the sofa. “Fire away.”

“First—you must know there was a shooting in here.”

“Right.” Brice’s grin was small but real. “You guys left a mess.”

“I’m sure we did. Do you know who was involved?”

“No, I don’t. Only I think a blonde I saw at the infirmary was. I don’t know her name, but I saw her brought in before I left.”

Skip nodded. “Short and a little plump? About thirty-five?”

“That’s her. From the look of my stateroom, she’d done a lot of bleeding.”

“Some of that was mine.” Skip drew a deep breath. “I passed out twice, Lieutenant; but I think the woman you saw must have been my secretary, Susan Clerkin. I ought to go down and see her.”

“I’m sorry she got hurt, sir.”

“So am I. Where was the blood?”

“On the rug in this room, and in the bathroom. The bathroom was a mess.”

“You cleaned it up?”

Brice shook his head. “I got our steward on it, and he brought in some maids.”

“What was found in the room? Besides the blood?”

“You’d like to make your suit stronger. I’m not going to help you with it.”

“No. I’m trying to find out what happened and why. A man named Rick Johnson was killed in here.”

“I didn’t know him. Listen, I don’t want a drink—I’ll be on duty in a couple of hours. But if you’d like something…?”

“Thank you. A sandwich and a glass of iced coffee.”

“I’ll join you. What kind of sandwich?”

“Any kind,” Skip said.

Brice picked up the telephone and ordered.

“I’m Chelle’s contracto. You know that.”

“Right.” Brice’s eyes were guarded, his nod almost imperceptible.

“When I came into our bedroom not so long ago, you were in bed with her. You grabbed your clothes and dashed out, vaulting over the rail of our veranda. I don’t know what you did after that, and to be honest I don’t care.”

“Then let’s not talk about it.”

“Earlier that evening, you had given Chelle a card for this stateroom. That’s the important point. Do you deny it?”

“I don’t, sir. I don’t, but you’ve got it wrong. Can I tell you the whole thing from my end?”

Skip nodded. “I wish you would.”

“Fine. There was a party for vets. I came off duty and decided to put on civvies, drop in, and see if there was anybody I knew. There was, and he bought me a drink. That meant I had to buy him one, so I hung around and talked. Somebody introduced me to Chelle, and she and I hit it off. Maybe it was just because I’m taller than she is. There aren’t a lot of guys who are.”

“Including me,” Skip said.

“I didn’t mean it like that. Well, anyway, she said it was getting too noisy, how about going to her stateroom? I jumped at it. I didn’t know she was contracted then. I hadn’t asked and she didn’t tell me. Do you want to hear what we did in bed? There wasn’t anything very freaky.”

“I think it would be better if I didn’t know.”

“I’ve got it, sir.” Brice pushed his chair back; the distance might have been three centimeters. “It would hit you hard. I can see that.”

“Go on, please.”

“I just wanted to say she was good—”

Skip’s phone vibrated. He answered it with alacrity.

“Mr. Grison? This is Lana. Remember me? The bar on E Deck?” The tiny screen showed him a tired blonde.

“Yes. Certainly.”

“If you’re still lookin’ for the guy with the hooks, he just came in. He’s with three other guys.”

“Can you talk to him privately?”

“Sure. I’ll just get him to come over to the bar for a minute. They’re at a table.”

“Then tell him I was looking for him. Tell him I want information and I may have a job for him.”

“Got it. Will do.”

Skip hung up. “When will we make port? Your professional opinion.”

“If the weather cooperates, it could be as early as tomorrow.” Brice paused. “The old man’s anxious to get there, and I don’t blame him. We’ve got forty-three hijackers locked up, some on K Deck and some in the hold. If we can’t do it tomorrow, probably Monday. It could be later, but I doubt it.”

“Thanks. You must have known that Chelle and I were contracted, since you ran when I came in.”

“I didn’t,” Brice said. “Would I have gone up to your stateroom if I had? I don’t know. Probably I would have.”

Skip nodded.

“She said she had a boyfriend. Okay, but those doors lock every time they close, and I thought she meant some guy who didn’t have a card. You came in after that. I figured you’d take a punch at me, and I knew that if I got mixed up in a fight—that kind of fight—I could kiss my job goodbye. So I beat it.”

For a moment, Brice hesitated. “I’ve done that sort of thing before, sir, only it wasn’t your Chelle. This was another passenger on the last cruise.”

“Are you saying you didn’t give Chelle your cabin card?”

“No, sir. I did, but it was the next day. I ran into her—I was out on deck where they’d fouled a halyard, and she came over to watch. So we talked for a minute or two, and I slipped her my spare card. Some girls really go for that, sir. They like being up here with an officer.”

“Mostly tourist-class girls, I would imagine.”

Brice shook his head. “I try to stay away from those.”

“You must know who was in this room when the shooting occurred.”

“No, sir. I was still in the infirmary.”

“Someone must have told you,” Skip insisted.

“No, sir. Nobody did, and I haven’t asked. I still feel pretty rocky. Weak, you know. That’s been on my mind a lot more than what happened up here.”

“I could name almost everyone who was in here when I regained consciousness, although I’m more interested in someone who wasn’t. Most of all, I’m interested in the one person I didn’t already know. If you can tell me who he is, I’ll be grateful. Extremely grateful.”

Brice shook his head. “I don’t know who any of them were, sir, except for you. You said you were here, that you were shot in here.”

“I was. This man is elderly. His hair is white. He wears glasses. He has a white mustache and a pointed beard long enough to cover the knot in his tie. They’re neatly trimmed. He’s thin, and a good ten centimeters taller than most men—about your height or a trifle more. He walks with a blackthorn stick and smokes a corncob.”

“How sure are you about all this, sir?”

“Certain. I talked with him, although not for long. I realized how tall he was when he stood up.”

“I don’t know him. I can’t think of anybody remotely like that, not even somebody I saw on tele. He was well dressed? You said something about a necktie.”

Skip nodded. “Seersucker suit. Blue stripes, I think. Soft white shirt. Navy-blue tie with a red figure. I couldn’t tell what the figure was, but it was probably some kind of animal. White wing-tip shoes, well polished.”

Brice grinned. “Socks?”

“White. His watch looked expensive, but I didn’t recognize the make. No rings. This isn’t helping you, and you’re not helping me. Let me try another question. Do you know anyone currently on this ship named White?”

Brice paused to think, his fingers drumming the arm of the couch. “No, sir. No, I don’t. I knew a White in the Naval Academy, sir. Bob White. I couldn’t tell you where he is now.”

There was a knock at the door. “Steward.” Brice rose to admit a short, dark man with a tray.

When the coffee and sandwiches had been apportioned, Skip said, “Someone called the man I described Mr. White. If—”

“I thought you said you didn’t know his name.”

“I don’t.” Skip took a bite of his sandwich, chewed, and rediscovered that he was ravenously hungry. “I heard him called that. It may not be his real name. If I were made to bet, I’d bet that it isn’t.”

Another bite of toast, turkey, and bacon gave Brice time in which to speak if he wanted it. He did not.

“I watched the people Mick Tooley brought get off Soriano’s boat,” Skip said. “I saw Soriano’s men, too. This man wasn’t in either group. Therefore ‘Mr. White’ is a crewman or a passenger. Would you know him if he were in the crew?”

“Absolutely. From what you say, he’d be the oldest crew member by far.”

“Then he’s a passenger. I’m not sure the purser’s office tells me the truth. Will you call for me, and let me listen in?”

Brice moved to the bed to use his computer. Settled there, he selected a number and touched the screen to turn up the volume.

“Purser’s office.”

“This is Lieutenant Brice. I’m looking for a male passenger named White—Mr. White. How many have we got?”

“Just a moment, sir.”

Brice waited.

“None, sir.”

“No passengers named White?” Brice looked at Skip inquiringly.

“Try Blue,” Skip told him.

Brice nodded and told the purser’s mate, “How about Blue? Mr. Blue. Anything like that.”

“I’ll check, sir.”

Brice waited again.

“We’ve got one, sir. Mastergunner Chelle Sea Blue, sir. Stateroom Twenty-three C.”

Brice glanced at Skip, who said, “Hang up.”

“Thanks,” Brice told the purser’s mate, and did.

Skip rose and began to pace.

“Sorry I haven’t been of more help, sir.” Brice rose, too.

“So am I. I want you to promise me that if anything turns up related to that shooting, or you learn anything you think might be of value to me, you’ll let me know.”

“Will you promise not to take me to court?”

“Yes. I will. I do.”

“Then I’ll help you all I can.” Brice returned to his sandwich and iced coffee.

“Good.” Skip smiled, and wondered how long it had been since he had smiled last. “I need more favors. Will you question your steward for me? Find out if he knows anything?”

“Sure.”

“Good. I’m going to go down to the infirmary to talk to Susan.” As he opened the door, Skip turned. “One more thing. Tonight’s Formal Night in first class.”

“I know.” Brice sighed. “Full-dress uniform, with decorations.”

“Come by our table. I don’t know which one it will be. You’ll have to find us.”

Brice nodded.

“Supposedly, this ‘Mr. White’ will be there. Have a look at him. Did I give you my card?”

“No. Maybe you could give me your phone number, too.”