Power Down (5 page)

“You start,” Dewey said to Haig.

“I think there’s a lot of hatred of the Arabs right now,” Haig said, hesitating. “Jim was popular.”

“Are we talking about revenge?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t get involved.”

Dewey looked at Esco.

“What about you?” he asked.

Esco shrugged. “Two men got into a fight. One died, and his people took their revenge. Now Serine is dead.”

Dewey studied the expression on his face. There was nothing, no movement, frown, or anything readable on Esco’s face. “Can you help?” Dewey asked.

“I’ll try, Chief. I don’t know how much influence I have.”

“Same here,” said Haig. “There’s right and wrong on both sides. I’ll talk to the guys. Do what I can.”

Dewey glanced out the window at the approaching tanker, still far in the distance.

“I know you two aren’t causing the trouble. I asked you here because hopefully you can convince others to listen to you. I want you to bring a message to the men. If there are any fights tonight, the men involved will be locked in the
Montana
’s brig. They’ll be brought to Buenaventura where I will have the Colombian state police arrest them and charge them with attempted murder, assault, and whatever else I can dream up. Anson Energy will use whatever influence it has to see that these men are put away for a long time.”

Dewey paused for a moment to let his words sink in.

“There’s a prison called Picalea, in the foothills below the Andes. It’s an awful place. In winter, there’s no heat. It gets bitterly cold. They don’t even have windows in the cells, only holes and bars. The snow comes right in, and all they give you is a crappy little blanket. In summer, well, in summer it gets so goddamn hot you wish winter would get there.” Dewey took a step forward and looked at Esco and Haig in turn. “Anything happens tonight, any violence, the fighters’ll spend the next decade of their lives in that prison.”

“Got it,” said Haig.

“I’ll tell the men,” said Esco.

After they left, Dewey sat down to do something he knew he could avoid no longer: draft a memo to the director of security at Anson back in Dallas. After completing the note, though, he decided not to send it.
A couple of deaths
, he thought.
That’s all. It’s over now.

He deleted the e-mail as the tanker
Montana
arrived, docking at the derrick’s eastern side. It was a massive ship, tall enough to rise darkly above the edge of the platform. Its six-story height would decrease dramatically as the tanker filled with oil.

At nine o’clock, Dewey boarded the
Montana.
At the top of the gangplank waited Captain Pablo Pascoe.

“Hey, buddy,” said Pablo. “Hungry?”

“Starved,” said Dewey. “Thirsty too.”

They walked down the length of the ship to the navigations center, then took the elevator up to the bridge, the top level of the supertanker.

Dewey said hello to the crewmen in the bridge as he walked to the dining room.

“Whiskey, straight up?”

“Be great.”

“No ice, as I recall. ‘Neat,’ yes?”

“You got it.”

“How’s business?” asked Pablo.

“Steady as she goes. Same old. You know the drill.”

Pablo poured two drinks. They took their glasses to the outside deck area. The
Montana
hadn’t been to Capitana for several months. Dewey found the temporary relief in its refuge more pleasurable than he’d thought possible. The view from the deck wasn’t bad either. The fading sunlight to the west, coloring into a spectacular sunset. To the east, Capitana’s massive city of pipes, steel, and flame stacks reflected the retreating light.

“Where you in from?” Dewey asked. “New York?”

“New York, Miami, then London,” said Pablo. “My sister lives in
London. We had a good weekend there. Cricket match, picnic, that sort of thing.”

“I like London.”

They spoke about London, and England, for some time. When they finished their drinks and Pablo went to pour another round, Dewey thought back to the brutal knife fight atop the deck, the deck that from here appeared so quiet and peaceful in the fading evening light. Pablo’s tone helped ease him, relax him, and made him forget about the violence of the night before.

But not for long. As they moved into the dining room and the alcohol took effect, Dewey strangely found himself growing more sober, dwelling on the prospect of another bloody night on Capitana.

“Something bothering you?” Pablo asked. “You seem put out.”

“Two men were killed last night,” Dewey said.

Pablo did a double take.

“What? Are you kidding?”

“No. Knife fight. Bloody as hell.”

Pablo shook his head in sympathy. “This is terrible. If there’s anything—”

“I may need you to take some men tomorrow. Move a few troublemakers out of here.”

“I’m at your service. I’ll take anyone you want.” Pablo stared at Dewey. “Including you. You look tired, my friend. Maybe you need a break. When was the last time you spent some time in Cali?”

“I can’t remember.”

“That’s what I thought. What do you say? Take a weekend, a week. You really do look like you could use the rest. How about it?”

“I can’t. Not with the situation on the rig. Some other time.”

They ate dinner and managed to drink two bottles of red wine in the process. They spoke no more of what they’d discussed before. At just after midnight, Dewey returned to the platform and walked back to his office.

The sky, even now, at a quarter past midnight, had a strange paisley glow to it. Part of that no doubt was the burn off from the flare stacks,
the orangey, smoke-filled heat waves blurring and lighting their way into dissipation far off, to the east of the rig. But part of it, too, was the horizon. At this time of year, the light never seemed to die.

Dewey watched for a few moments as a crew of men on deck moved some of the duct manifolds to a different part of the tanker. Finally, as they finished and walked away, Dewey looked back to the horizon. He tried to clear his mind. He had to stop thinking about what might or might not be happening, if only for a few minutes.

Slowly, in the big chair, Dewey drifted off to sleep.

Suddenly, he awoke; a knock on the cabin door. He’d been asleep on the chair for hours. The lights were still on. His eyes refocused, looked slowly around the room. His head ached from too much wine. He leaned forward, stood up. He walked quickly across his office to the door.

“What is it?” he asked as he opened the door. It was one of his foremen, Baroni.

“You better come.” Baroni’s forehead creased sharply with concern.

“What is it?”

“Jonas.”

Dewey stood and looked at the clock on his wall. It was four o’clock in the morning.

He put his boots on and followed Baroni. The sound of the sea slapping against the platform combined with the steady hum of the oil coursing into the hold of the
Montana.
It was dark outside, but the deck lay awash in halogen light.

They walked quickly along the side of the big tanker.

“Why isn’t anyone watching the loading?”

“I’ll show you why.”

They passed the hotel and scaled the east stairwell to the sea deck. Ahead, a small group of men was gathered. Red lights from the lower deck cast a muted glow on the scene.

Dewey felt as if he were walking in slow motion.

“I went to hit the head a few minutes ago,” said Baroni as they arrived at the scene.

Dewey pushed his way through the circle of men. On the floor of the bathroom, the body of Jonas Pierre lay contorted against the toilet, sideways.
His hands were tied behind his back. His big blue eyes stared out blankly, bulging and red. A band of wire dug deeply into his neck, making his face appear almost blue. He’d been strangled to death.

Dewey said nothing as he knelt over Pierre. He was all of thirty years old. He had a family in Florida, a wife named Emily and two daughters.

“Wire cutters,” he said quietly. “Someone get me a pair of wire cutters.”

A minute later, one of the men handed Dewey a pair of wire cutters. He reached down and cut the band of wire at the nape of the neck. He let Pierre’s head fall back into his hands then laid it gently on the steel floor. Leaning forward, he softly pushed Pierre’s eyelids closed.

“Wake up Barbo,” Dewey said without looking up from the floor. He shut his eyes and rubbed the space between them as he thought. “Tell him to have Jonas prepared for burial. Tell him the men are taking the body down to the riser. Have him meet us there with the weights. Right now.”

“Okay.”

Dewey stood up.

“Baroni, I want all the foremen at the burial. Go wake ’em up. Other than finishing the loading of the
Montana
, Capitana will cease pumping operations immediately. Everyone is to remain in their quarters, except for the foremen and your crew. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dewey knelt down. He remembered the Gerber combat blade he’d given Pierre. Pierre still wore the sheath, but it was empty. He searched the dead man’s body for the knife. It wasn’t there.

“Keep an eye out for a black knife, double serrated, six-inch blade, hilt wrapped in tape. It’s mine. Jonas had it.” He looked at the men standing outside the door. They were silent. He could see fear in their eyes.

“You four carry the body down to the platform riser.”

He walked back to the cabin. He went to the bathroom and turned the tap on, splashing cold water on his face. He looked quickly in the mirror. His eyes were bloodred and large purplish bags were under his lids. He looked like shit.

He closed his eyes, leaning forward into the sink. He tried not to
think about Pierre. He knew, though, it was his fault. Dewey had gotten him killed the moment he asked him to help out, the moment he gave him the knife. He shook his head in shame and regret. He splashed more water onto his face. He had to stay strong.

They buried Pierre as the dark of night was beginning to ashen into the predawn. All twenty-four foremen stood on the platform riser as Barbo rolled the winch handle and let the young man’s body, weighted now and wrapped in tarp, slide with a small splash into the beckoning sea.

Dewey looked up. There were no crewmen watching this time. He walked to the stairs and stood on the second step so that he could see his men.

“Have your night crew stay on until the
Montana
’s done loading,” he said to Baroni.

“Got it.”

“I want the rest of you to conduct a room-by-room search of the hotel. Every room, every bunk, every drawer of every cabinet, dresser, every bathroom, every man. Work in pairs. Put a piece of tape on the door of a finished room. Any man complains, take them immediately to the brig, on my orders. Any trouble, any fights, violence, whatever, pull the alarm switch next to the door. If anyone attempts to fight, use whatever means necessary to subdue them. One in each pair, you carry something with you, a hammer, wrench, knife, whatever.”

“What are we looking for?”

“Signs of struggle. Bloodstains. Pierre had a big gash on his head. He may have head-butted someone. Maybe he got in a swing on his attackers. Look for a black eye, a bloody lip, broken nose, whatever. And find my knife. It’s a Gerber, six-inch blade, double serrated. The letters D.A. are engraved on one side. The word
GAUNTLET
is engraved on the other.”

Dewey turned and walked alone up the steps to the central deck then back to his office.

An hour later, Baroni knocked on Dewey’s door. “Anything I can do?” he asked.

“I want to speak with Esco. Can you get him?”

“Sure.”

In a few minutes, Esco entered Dewey’s office.

“Morning,” said Esco.

Dewey didn’t answer him. He didn’t even look at him. He stared out the window at the
Montana
and behind the tanker at the growing orange of sunrise.

“Who killed Jonas Pierre?” Dewey asked.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Pierre is dead? What happened?”

Dewey turned from the window. He took three steps across the floor of his office and leaned into Esco’s face.

“Who killed him?”

“I don’t know.”

“I told you to put a lid on this, goddamn it. Now I’ve got no choice. If I don’t have a name in one hour, I’ll order you and every other roughneck of Arabic descent off the rig for good. You’ll all be in the
Montana
’s brig when it leaves this afternoon.”

Esco shook his head. “This is unfair, Chief.”

Dewey ignored him as he continued to stare at Esco. He reached his hand out slowly and placed it gently around Esco’s neck. “If I find out you knew who killed Pierre, I will personally break your neck with my own hands.”

Esco remained impassive. “I told you I don’t know who killed him. I told Serine’s friends what you asked. I’ll ask what they know. Why do you blame me? I didn’t want Pierre killed. I just want to work.”