Exodus 2022 (18 page)

Joe had helped her understand this. Helped her heal. Now he was suffering, and she knew she would do whatever it took to help him through his ordeal.

PHELPS AND EDELSTEIN
sat at a table in
Marauder
’s main galley; a twenty-four-hour cafeteria frequented by the ship’s crew, Beck’s security team, and technicians from the War Room.

It was midday, the galley was bustling, and patrons were clustered around the space. Soldiers here. Technicians there. Overall-clad engine-room guys by the windows. Everyone divided into cliques. Like high school. Phelps and Edelstein occupied a small table in a far corner.

“Anybody watching us?” Phelps asked. His back was to the soldiers.

Edelstein picked at her salad. Took a bite. Glanced at the soldiers a few tables away. “Don’t know. Feels like everyone is lately.”

Phelps said, “They could be recording. I wouldn’t put it past Beck, based on the stuff I’ve been reading.”

Edelstein continued eating without enthusiasm. “Well then,” she said, after a while. “On that note, should we talk, or not?”

Edelstein was a vibrant sixtysomething PhD with an important job, lots of friends, and a comfortable life. Unaccustomed to the kind of doubt and worry she was feeling now. The feeling made her grumpy.

Phelps sipped a cup of hot tea. “I think we need to talk. And this is probably the best place. Doesn’t make sense that they’d have every table wired. And I’m not seeing anything in the ceiling.”

Edelstein glanced up. Took another bite of her salad. “So Beck’s lying to us?” she said.

“Yes. He is.”

“You’ve thought that since he told us Stanton was at Swedish Hospital in Seattle, right? But it’s just a hunch. I mean, you don’t
know
it’s a lie.”

Phelps said, “It’s more than a hunch now. I heard something else.”

Edelstein set down her fork.

“One of Ring’s techs said something. A slip of the tongue.”

“What?”

“We were chatting and he mentioned he needed to find another drive for all the data coming in from Stanton’s thought captures. That struck me as odd and I said, ‘Oh, you mean for all the material you guys downloaded from Stanton on the
Northern Mercy
?’ And the tech looked at me kinda weird—just for a second—and said, ‘Yeah, that’s right. That’s what I meant.’ But it wasn’t what he meant.”

“So you think Beck’s still holding Stanton?”

“He’s either holding Stanton on the
Mercy
, or they installed an implant and let him go on his merry way and they’re recording his thoughts without his knowledge. Either way, I doubt Stanton has a clue about his true condition. Or the fact that he’s likely to die in a few days.”

Edelstein thought about it. “You really think Beck’s that—I don’t know—cold? That calculating? I mean, to bring the priest and his girlfriend onto the hospital ship under the pretense of helping them, while really all he wants is to study the guy?”

Phelps nodded, lowered his voice. “Pretty much, yes.”

He took another sip of his tea and kept his voice low. “I mean, first off, based on the stuff I’ve read, it’s his personality. And it’s also his training. He killed people for a living. His company kills people for a living. It’s supposed to be the bad guys they kill, but I’m not so sure Beck differentiates that much.”

Phelps continued, “I wish I’d looked into it a bit more before I signed on. That I’d read more about Beck. But all I saw was the fee he was dangling out there. All I heard was ‘Come and advise us on some neuroanatomy questions for a week or two and we’ll pay you more than you earn in a year as a professor.’”

Edelstein’s face paled. She’d had the same reaction to Beck’s offer. She remembered the call from the Erebus representative—a smooth talker named Gliss:
“We’ve heard about your work
,” he’d told her,
“and are interested in hiring you to help with a fascinating field study in Alaska. One to two weeks max, and you’ll live on a luxury ship during your stay.”
When Gliss had announced the fee they were offering, she’d practically fallen out of her chair. She’d signed on immediately.

Edelstein took a deep breath. “Here’s what I don’t get,” she said. “Beck’s had all this negative press, right?”

Phelps nodded. “Yeah. A ton the last couple of years.”

“So then, he and Ring stumble across this phenomenon. This remarkable discovery: shared hallucinations tied to something real and new and extraordinary in the ocean. Why wouldn’t he share it? Open it up, like his sister advised? He’d be in the news.”

Phelps laughed. “He’s
been
in the news.”

“Yes, but this would all be good press. It would solve his PR problems overnight. He’d be seen in a new light—as an explorer. A visionary. I can see the headline: ‘Controversial defense contractor makes deep ocean discovery.’ He’d be a hero.”

“It’s not gonna happen.”

“Why not? Beck’s a smart guy. Even if he’s a mercenary he wants to keep his career intact. Wants his billion-dollar empire to continue. Why keep the lid on a weird, arcane scientific phenomenon when it could redeem your reputation?”

Phelps shook his head. “Because he and Ring believe it’s more than that. They’re convinced the chamber structures are real and that they
do
something. Can be used for something.”

“What?”

“Ring isn’t saying. He just keeps telling Beck that they have to get to one of the structures. It’s why they’re bringing in deep-water probes. And a submarine. Beck knows other people will investigate—no doubt already
are
investigating—and he wants to control the situation. He’s a control freak, on top of everything else.”

They sat in silence for a long time. Edelstein watched as the soldiers got up from their table and exited the cafeteria. A couple of them glanced her way, without expression. She’d learned early on that the groups on the ship—the soldiers and crew, engine-room guys and War Room technicians—kept to themselves. To their own cliques. They’d talk to you if they had to, and they were courteous enough, but it was all business. No idle chitchat.

“So what about us?” said Edelstein. “Beck brings us on board for our expertise, and we get up to speed, and start asking questions…I mean if Beck’s really doing what you think he’s doing with Stanton, using the man, exploiting him, letting him just…die, without disclosing his true condition…” She fell silent.

“How worried are you?” she asked at last. “I mean, are you worried for your safety?”

Phelps shook his head. “No. My whole department knows about this contract. They know where I am. My family knows where I am.”

Edelstein nodded, relieved. Her situation was similar.

“My suspicion,” said Phelps, “Is that Beck is monitoring our calls and e-mails and watching for the slightest breach of contract. I won’t be surprised if Erebus lawyers debrief us before we leave the ship. I won’t be surprised if Beck threatens me with lawsuits if I reveal anything I’ve seen or heard during my stay here.”

Edelstein laughed, “I’m fine with that. At this point I just want to go home.”

Phelps nodded. “I agree.”

Edelstein said, “So let’s call Collins. Or Gliss, if he’s on board. Tell ’em we want off the boat. Request they put us on the next helicopter out of here.”

Phelps smiled. “I like it. Beck might try to stiff us on payment, though.”

“I’ll worry about that when I’m back at Woods Hole,” said Edelstein. “I just want the hell off this boat.”

“Their mute gaze suggests a vision of reality beyond our imagining. What do they see in their ignorance that we in our wisdom are mostly blind to?”

-Frederick Buechner

JOE AND ELLA WALKED
, hand in hand, to the western edge of the Manette Bridge. It was a little after 1 a.m. on a cloudless Monday. The Fourth of July.

The bridge was quiet, but the sporadic boom of fireworks rattled the surrounding neighborhoods. Revelers sampling their arsenals for the big day ahead.

“Never seen the bridge this empty,” whispered Joe.

Ella squeezed his hand. “Maybe because you’ve never been here in the middle of the night before.” A massive firework rumbled in the distance.

A Seattle-bound ferry slid away from the city pier a mile to the south, and the ship’s Coast Guard–mandated safety announcement echoed across the water. “Hello, and welcome aboard. May I have your attention, please?”

The announcement droned on and the ferry moved with surprising speed into the center of the inlet, diesel engines rumbling, light pouring from the passenger cabin. It looked like a floating all-night supermarket.

“Big bridge,” said Ella, as a police car glided past, slowing to look at them. “Any idea where she wants to meet?” 

Ella was trying to keep an open mind. The man she loved was hearing a voice in his head. Believing it to be real. And a part of her was caught up in his dream. The logical, rational part of her brain was complaining—pointing out all the reasons why
The Voice
couldn’t be real—but Ella spoke no judgment or criticism. They were in this together. And they would know soon enough.

Joe looked at the sky as they walked. The night was clear, the moon huge and high. Moonlight glinted and danced on the dark face of the Washington Narrows, eighty-two feet below. But there was no romance for Joe and Ella in the lunar glow. Only mystery—and a growing sense of dread.

Beck’s men were also there. Hidden in the weeds on either side of the 1,500-foot-long steel truss bridge. Waiting. Watching Joe and Ella through night-vision goggles. Filming the couple’s every move.

More explosions reverberated across the channel. Bright fountains of light.

Joe and Ella walked on. Watched. Listened. They could hear the rumble of traffic in the distance, and big machines working in the naval shipyards, cranes and derricks humming and whining. Busy, despite the hour. Despite the holiday.

They were about halfway across the bridge now, near the structure’s high point, the point at which they could see easily in both directions.

Nothing else moved on the bridge. No pedestrians. No cars.

Joe stopped walking. Ella stopped, too. Downtown Bremerton and the naval shipyard glowed in the west. The community of Manette shimmered over the bridge’s eastern edge.

The city seemed to be taking a breath, calming itself in the small hours of the night, in advance of holiday parades and Seafair festivities.

Below, the deep, silent waters of the Washington Narrows rushed between Sinclair and Dyes Inlets.

They waited, the same thought tormenting both of them.
We’re here because of a voice.

A voice.

Joe’s shoulders sagged.
I really am losing my mind
, he thought.
Crazy people hear voices. Lunatics. Drug addicts.

Standing there, falling into despair, he envisioned tests. Procedures. Scans.

Ella imagined supporting him through his ordeal. Staying with him. Helping him recover.

Kawoof!

The sound brought them back to reality. Back to the moment. They turned toward the channel, toward the dark water flowing silently, far below.

Kawoof!

They knew the sound, but it was the last thing in the world either of them expected to hear in this place, at this time.

Kawoof!
Deep and full.

Kawoof!
Light and quick.

Kawoof!
Rich and breathy.

“Whales,” Joe whispered.

Kawoof!
So close that Ella half expected the mist from the whale’s exhale to waft up and hit her in the face.

“What are they doing here?” Ella asked, her voice soft with wonder. “In the narrows?”

They could hear other sounds now: sleek bodies slicing through icy water. Dorsal fins cutting the surface. And all at once, Ella could see the whales. See them in the moonlight. Ethereal shapes rising and falling, rolling ever closer to the bridge. The lead leviathan’s spray seemed to fall in slow motion, water droplets glittering like a veil of diamonds in the moon’s glow.

“It’s her,” said Joe, his face a mask of bewilderment. Bewilderment changing to wonder, changing to joy.

“Her?” said Ella, scanning the bridge deck in both directions, annoyed at the mention of “the voice” when there were whales to observe. Whales in such a strange setting, in such surreal circumstances.

A moving van rumbled across the bridge and Ella turned to look. When she turned back around, her heart froze.

Joe had climbed over the bridge’s safety barrier and was clinging one-handed to the railing, leaning out, dangling like an insolent teenager. If he let go, he’d plummet eight stories to the channel below.

“Joe!” Ella sprang toward him, grabbing his arm, pulling with all her strength. “What are you doing? No! Joe! 

“Help!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Help!”

Joe drew back to the rail and gripped it with both hands, which made Ella relax just a little bit.

“Joe—listen to me—”

“It’s her,” said Joe, a giddy gleam in his eye that simultaneously frightened and fascinated Ella.

“Who? Joe. Please. Just climb back over the rail.”

Kawoof!
Much louder now. The whales were almost to the bridge.

“She’s here. But people are watching. This is the only way.”

Joe pulled closer, and Ella thought he intended to climb back to safety. He kissed her passionately. “I love you,” he said. Then, before she could react or move, he pushed off hard, springing back and dropping like a stone.

“Joe!” Ella lunged and grasped at thin air, almost toppling over the rail herself. “Help! No! Joe!”

Joe plunged into the icy water, into the heart of the moving mass of orca whales, and vanished from sight.

“Help!” Ella screamed, sprinting back along the bridge, back the way they’d come.

Beck’s operatives—one man on each side of the river—had seen Joe climb over the rail and jump, but they didn’t know the reason. Now they were sprinting for higher ground and a better view, trying to keep out of sight and also ascertain Stanton’s whereabouts. They’d been briefed on Stanton, but no one had said anything about suicide.