Petrogypsies (15 page)

Behind me, Doc whistled. “What the hell could have done that?”

Over where Sprocket had made his last cast, where the fins cut across the surface, the water boiled white.

Sprocket stuffed the half-a-shark into his eating mouth and began to chew.

* * *

As he finished the last gulp, the chief appeared around his flank. Sprocket bemusedly smacked his lips as the chief set down the five-gallon can he was lugging.

“I figured out how I could reward Sprocket,” he said. He pulled a big screwdriver out of his back pocket and began to pry the lid off.

“Here you go, Sprocket.” The chief stepped back from the can of Muracon-E. “Have a ball. Thanks for saving my life.”

Sprocket’s drillhead poked tentatively out of his mouth and snuffled once. His eyes popped open and spun alarmingly, then he croaked in panic and backed rapidly away from the can.

“What’s the matter with him?” the chief said. We both looked at the can at the same time, but it was really Muracon-E, not something else.

“Hey, Sprocket, calm down,” Doc called out. Sprocket continued to back across the deck. His whole front end clenched up.

“What’s happening?” I asked nobody in particular. “He loves that stuff. He’s acting like—”

Then I glanced over at the chief. “He’s acting,” I finished slowly, “exactly like he did when he pulled Pegleg out of the hole.”

The blood drained out of the chief’s face. I knew and he knew that I knew.

“Aww, Chief.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“The stuff that was smeared in Pegleg’s clothes,” I went on. “Some of it must have been Muracon-E. That’s why Sprocket don’t like it any more. The only place it could have come from is your Goody Room. And you’re the only person with a key to it.

The chief started to recover. “No, that’s—”

Behind me, Doc spoke. “I bet somewhere in that police investigation of Pegleg’s murder is an analysis of the stuff in his wounds.”

“There’s no evidence—”

“When you know where to look, there’s always evidence,” Doc said. “There’s probably still traces in the Goody Room, blood and hair and such.”

“Aww, Chief,” I said again. “Why?”

The chief’s hand dipped into his pocket and came out with a small-caliber revolver.

* * *

For a long minute, the chief faced us. The gun swung slowly back and forth as if he wasn’t sure who to point it at. Nobody moved. Maybe fifteen of us stood in a semi-circle around him, with another half-dozen staring down from the balcony. He had six bullets at the most in his pistol, but nobody wanted to be the first to help him use them up.

“What you gonna do now?” I finally asked. “We’re out in the middle of the damn ocean. There’s no place to go. Even if you hold us up till we get to shore, then jump ship, you can’t get much of a head start.”

He still looked uncertain. I started to hope that I could plain talk him out of the gun.

“Look, this is crazy,” I said. “You and me are friends, Chief. Believe me. You ain’t gonna do nothing but get in deeper from here on. Unless you call it off right now.”

“It was self-defense, Henry Lee,” he said.

“I believe you.”

Behind him, Sprocket growled and his tongue poked out of his mouth. He may not have understood what was going on, but he sensed that we were all sure unhappy with the chief at the moment.

The chief turned at the sound and eyed Sprocket. Then I made a stupid move. I stepped forward and reached for the gun, but the chief slid aside and pointed it at my face before my hand could close on it.

“I can’t trust you, either, can I, Henry Lee?” he said. “You don’t give a damn about me. Nobody does. Nobody ever did.” The gun was pointed at me now, no waving from person to person.

“Everything I been saying is true, Chief. You’re just making it worse on yourself. If it was self-defense—”

“Shut up. Let me think.” He moved so he could see all of us and Sprocket at the same time. While he pondered, the breeze freshened from the dead calm it had been.

“Okay,” he said after a minute. “I think I’ve got it worked out.” He gestured toward the second mate. “You, Mr. Atkins. Get the engine room gang up here.” He searched the faces on the balcony. “Sparks, you stay in sight. Nobody but you knows how to run that radio of yours. I’d just as soon no transmissions were made right now. Marvin, you get the wheelhouse crew down here. I want every hand on this ship assembled on deck in five minutes. If anyone comes up missing—you won’t like it.”

“But that’ll leave the ship adrift!” the second mate protested.

“That’s an order, mister!” He pointed the gun at the mate.

The mate nodded and left.

The chief turned back to me. “Okay, Henry Lee. Come here a minute. Don’t worry,” he said, when I hesitated. “Everything will work out fine. I just need to set things up properly.”

He took me by the arm and led me over to stand with him next to the wellhead. “I need to simplify things. So I can get away without anybody getting hurt in the process. First, let’s make sure I don’t have to worry about Sprocket any more.” He smiled at me, just like we were still buddies, then stuck the pistol barrel into my ear.

“Doc, Razer, you bring Sprocket’s tongue over here.”

“How come?” Razer asked.

The chief smiled again. “Don’t fuck with me. Just do it. Now.”

Sprocket stared at us while his drill-head was brought up the ramp. The works around the drilling head had been partially disassembled. “Open that valve,” the chief said to me, pointing with the gun at the shut-off valve that led to the mud tank.

“All right,” he went on when I had finished. “Now, let’s run his tongue in through it. Thirty or forty feet’s worth. I want his drillhead well into the tank.”

“That’s good,” the chief said after they had done what he said. “Now back off.” He reached out and grabbed the valve’s wheel and spun it. Sprocket twitched, but didn’t react otherwise. I felt a sharp pain shoot through my own mouth in sympathy when the chief gave it one final tug to cinch it down tight. Actually, it couldn’t have hurt Sprocket at all, considering the abuse his tongue took downhole daily.

The chief looked at me. “Sorry. I wish I didn’t have to do this. I closed it enough to trap his drillhead on the other side of the valve. That ought to neutralize him for the time being.”

He kept the gun against my head. “Okay. Next step is to put the rest of you somewhere safe.”

We waited until everybody from the engine room and the wheelhouse had assembled on deck. The chief counted heads until he was satisfied. When Captain Johnson stepped to the front of the crowd and opened his mouth, the chief shook his head and waggled the gun. “Don’t waste your breath,” he said.

He took me by the arm again. “I want all of you to follow us.”

The entire crew marched behind as we headed toward the fantail, straight down the catwalk that ran the length of the ship. Finally, he stopped when we stood beside a sealed and locked hatch.

“Purser! Front and center!”

Eight large C-clamps secured the hatch. They were twisted down as far as possible. A hole in the tightening knob lined up with a hole punched in a heavy metal tab that jutted out from the edge of the hatch. A lock had been passed through the holes on each clamp.

The purser came forward. “Unlock that hatch, please,” the chief said. Several rings of keys dangled from the purser’s belt. Without a word he bent and began to open the locks.

When the purser was done, the chief had me pull the hatch cover up and push it aside. I could see the floor of an empty hold ten feet below the deck. About then, I figured out what the chief planned for us.

He nodded and smiled when I looked at him.

“That’s right, Henry Lee. You’re all going below for a while.”

“Chief, you can’t run the ship all by yourself. Especially not with a hurricane blowing up.”

“I don’t plan to. I merely need you out of my hair,” he said, patting his bald head and smiling again, “while I disable the radio, gather up my belongings, and escape. I’ll pilot Mr. Pickett’s speedboat to shore. I can get to Freeport or Bolivar in an hour. The ship will require five or six hours. I’ll return for you in a few minutes. You help me cast off in the motor boat, then let everyone else out.”

He turned to the waiting crowd. “All right, everyone into the hold.”

A few minutes later, we stood in a clump in the hold, with the chief outlined above us. “I won’t be long, gentlemen. Try not to get too bored.” He dragged the hatch shut until it seated over the edge. It was quiet enough that you could hear him screwing down the clamps. He didn’t bother to snap any of the locks in place.

Doc struck a phosphorus match, making a tiny, wavering circle of light in the hold. “Anybody got any ideas on how we can stop this lunatic?” he asked.

Nobody did.

While we waited, we explored the rest of the hold. It was completely empty. No handy dynamite or welding rigs or giant economy-size can openers. No doors leading out. We were locked tight inside a bare metal box.

After what seemed to be forever, we heard the chief’s footsteps overhead again. He rapped on the hatch cover. “I’ve been thinking, boys. Five hours isn’t enough lead time. Better if everyone thinks I went down in the storm with the rest of you. Much easier for me to slip into my new life without the law after me. Sorry.”

Shouts drowned out his leave-taking.

“The bastard’s left us adrift,” Captain Johnson said. “When the hurricane hits …”

We heard the chief fire up T-Bone’s speedboat. The sound diminished as he motored away, and the hold grew quiet and still enough for me to notice a whooshing, rolling sound around us. The more I listened, the louder it sounded in the dark.

“What’s that noise, Captain?” I asked the captain.

The hold grew silent, and we could all hear the gurgling and slapping.

“Oh my god,” Captain Johnson whispered. “He’s opened the sea cocks.”

The hold got noisy again for a few minutes.

“I can’t believe he’s just left us here to die,” I said when it got quiet for a second. “Maybe while we were all yelling before, he undid the clamps on the hatch.”

“You climb up on my shoulders, Henry Lee,” Doc said. “You’re probably the strongest on the crew. How about a couple of you hands help me hold him up?”

The hatch was still clamped down. For ten minutes, I strained and grunted, but it wouldn’t lift an inch. When the clamps were down, the cranes probably couldn’t have pulled the hatch loose.

We were dead men, all of us.

“We should have jumped that bastard and taken our casualties when we had the chance,” Razer said.

After a while, we all sat together and rocked back and forth. Listening to the water rush into the holds around us.

I thought about the chief speeding away, leaving us behind to drown like rats. He could have let us live, but he didn’t. He’d killed us. Not because we threatened him anymore. His original plan would have worked. He’d have gotten away. But he chose to kill thirty-three men—and Sprocket!—because it was more convenient for him that way. I never knew people like that existed. I was sorry I ever found out. I felt stupid that he’d fooled me the way he did. I was just a big ol’ dumb country hick. Couldn’t tell the difference between a real friend and a mad-dog killer. On top of everything else, he’d let me twist in the wind for weeks while everybody thought I was the one who killed Pegleg.

About the time I was feeling as sorry for myself as I could, new footsteps approached the hatch above us. Hundreds of them.

Sprocket’s footsteps. He must have been playing his tongue out behind him to come to us.

I jumped up and started yelling. “Sprocket! Kick the clamps loose! Kick the clamps loose!” We pounded and shouted at Sprocket, but there was no way he could have understood us. All he understood was making a well and playing tricks on people. He probably couldn’t have kicked the clamps loose, anyway. They were made of heavy stainless steel and were practically flush with the deck when they were screwed down.

The ship settled lower in the water.

Then Sprocket screamed. I hope I never in my life hear another sound like it. It started low and ratcheted higher and louder until it keened so high we could barely hear it.

The scream cut off abruptly. A minute later Sprocket began shuffling about on deck again, grunting and moaning horribly. This went on for five or ten minutes. Then the hatch flexed twice and was wrenched into the air and out of sight. A second later, it clanged to the deck. Unbelievably, Sprocket had torn away the clamps.

I jumped up and grabbed the edge of the hole and levered myself outside. The clamps hadn’t been torn loose. They had been unscrewed. They, and the deck for yards around, were covered with a viscous golden liquid that looked a lot like highly refined light crude.

Sprocket stood near the rail with his eyes closed. He might have been asleep, except that his whole body trembled.

I thought back to the Bali Room parking lot. Those clamp knobs resembled gas tank caps. He must have used his tongue to twist them loose. Then hooked it through the crane eye in the center of the hatch and lifted it off.