Blood of the Albatross Page 13

  “A month, two months ago, you would have caught on right away. You would have realized that I knew about the traffic ticket, that would have clicked. You would have figured if I knew what you weren’t doing, then I probably knew what you were doing. Your brain’s going soft, Roy. You shouldn’t be drinking again.”

  “Earlier tonight I had this feeling you were having me watched.”

  “Why are you boozing again? You had that licked.”

  Kepella glowed inside: So even you think I’m drinking again. Great. “You never have it licked, Mark. You have it under control. There’s a big difference.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I thought you were having me watched. You get so you can feel it.”

  “Not watched. I check up on you now and again. I have you followed for a few hours. That’s all.”

  “Oh, is that all? Leave me alone, Mark. I’m doing fine.”

  “Not the way I see it.”

  “Damn it, Mark, come to the point.”

  “Hear me out, Roy.” He shifted in the seat, his buttocks numb. “So, we had this spot in Ballard staked. A deal went down. The timing agreed with a tip we had. We thought we were on the major buy.”

  “What the hell are you doing working narco anyway? That should be DEA.”

  “We’re helping out. Summer vacation time. All the agencies are a little shorthanded. We scratch each other’s backs. You know that. Let me finish.”

  “Go ’head.”

  “A buyer shows up. Green and Giapelli follow. The buyer is a little Chinese girl. Nice-looking girl they tell me.”

  Kepella’s heart skipped.

  “Roy, that nice little Chinese girl returned to your apartment.” He let it lie there. “Now, we know she wasn’t the major buyer. That deal went down just after Green and Giapelli took off… but what’s going on, Roy? You care to do a little explaining?”

  “No. No explaining, Mark.”

  “Damn it, Roy. Who is she?”

  “A whore I picked up.”

  “She lives there!”

  “I thought you said you only have me watched occasionally.”

  “Cocaine, Roy? Jesus Christ, you’ve put me in a hell of a pickle. Your address will wind up in a report—a narco report. You know where that puts me? Jesus Christ.” His anger flushed into his cheeks. He shifted on the seat, looked out the window at the other parked cars, then back at Kepella. “You have one of the highest security ratings in our department, Roy. Technically I should bring you in now—”

  “You can’t.”

  “Just what the hell does that mean?” Galpin shouted.

  “Stay out of this, Mark.”

  “Out of what, Roy? That’s what I have to know.”

  Kepella took his turn looking at the parked cars.

  “Listen, Roy, policy requires me to arrest you and turn you over to the shrinks. You know how the Agency feels about drug abuse, especially someone with your rating. It won’t fly, Roy.”

  “You’re not a policy man, Mark. You never have been. Shove the policy.”

  Neither man said anything for a few minutes. The heavy silence wore impatiently on Kepella. Galpin seemed accustomed to it. Finally Kepella said, “Leave it be, Mark.”

  “Leave what be, Roy?”

  “Why’d you pull me out of bed at this hour?”

  “Leave what be?”

  “The girl. Leave her alone.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that someone might be setting you up? What if this Chinese girl is being run to turn you? It fits perfectly, you know. She gains your confidence, gets you into a little soda, gets you drinking again, your money slides; you start selling little pieces of information, five hundred bucks here, five hund—”

  “Knock it off, Mark.”

  “—red there. Nothing too sensitive at first—”

  “Mark, you know me bet—”

  “And then the big offer: ten grand, who knows, fifty grand maybe, for some nice juicy tidbit. So you take a look at the history of the department. How often do we actually prosecute? Maybe if the press finds out about it, otherwise you go scot-free and you’re tailed the rest of your life—”

  “Or someone takes me out… I have an accident and happen to die in my bathtub.”

  “Ridiculous. But look at it from my side. How many go to court? One out of ten, maybe? One out of twenty? A man in your position, good and angry at the department, a suspension that hit the press, you’d make a hell of a target. Admit it! How about it, Roy? Have you been approached?”

  “No,” Kepella replied honestly, “I haven’t.”

  “Roy, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing, Mark. I’m screwing a girl half my age. Maybe she plays around with soda. Maybe I look the other way.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  “Always the suspicious one, eh, Mark?”

  “They pay me to be suspicious, Roy. You know that. No offense, but you’re not the Paul Newman of middle age. A good-looking young chick winds up between your sheets, what should I think… that you’ve bought a new cologne or something? Roy, open your eyes. They may be coming after you.”

  “Who, Mark? Do you have a name for this ominous ‘they’? Or is it just the fellows in the black hats?”

  “Christ, Roy! This isn’t like you. What the hell is going on?” He paused. “I demand to know.” Galpin’s fists were clenched.

  Kepella thought for a moment. He turned to his former friend and said, “It’s coming apart on me, Mark. I’m trying to catch the ball of yarn—trying to pick it up—but all I have hold of is the single strand. I pull and I pull and the ball just keeps running away from me. It unravels and unravels and pretty soon I realize there’s nothing in the center, just more yarn. The ball is made up of one long strand.” He was shaking his fists in the air. His face vibrated and its loose flesh wiggled. “Christ, Mark. I’m looking for something. But the only thing there is the looking. Do you understand?”

  Galpin shook his head. “You’re talking in circles, Roy.”

  Kepella nodded, his face red, his fists still raised. “That’s it, Mark! Now you’ve got it. Good for you. Good for you. We should talk again, Mark.” Kepella pulled on the handle, hoping the door would open, hoping the driver had not thrown some master lock and imprisoned him in the back seat. The door swung open. “She’s a great lay, Mark. Best lay I’ve had in years. Makes me feel twenty years younger. I’m living again, Mark. Don’t you see? This is what I needed.” His face looked tortured. “Exactly what I needed.” He slammed the door and walked away.

  Galpin remained in the back seat, twisting his hands together in his lap. The driver approached the car and slid in behind the wheel. “Where to, sir?” he asked through the intercom system.

  They waited this way, the driver in the front, Galpin in the back, for a full ten minutes. Galpin finally pushed the intercom button. “Just drive, would you? I don’t care where. Just start driving.” In his mind he saw himself pulling on the end of the yarn. The ball kept rolling away from him.

  19

  The truck eased to a stop. Sharon Johnson hurried to get inside the box she had been hiding in, pulling the leather strap so the trap door closed behind her. She heard the driver’s door bang shut, followed by low voices. Then the sliding door rattled as the driver shook the handle. She heard two loud thumps, which signaled her to remain inside the box, followed by footfalls as a man made a cursory check of the cargo. Her heart raced as she realized how close the inspector was to her. “Move on,” she wanted to say. “Go away.”

  He hollered in French, “Smells like piss ’n the bottle in here. Magicians are scum. Worse than scum.” Another unfamiliar voice laughed. The truck rocked as the inspector jumped back down to the pavement. She relaxed. The rear door rattled down and the padlock clicked shut.

  The truck rolled on. She crawled out of the box—a maneuver she was growing accustomed to—and sat down atop an adjacent crate. The truck bounced over potholed roads. She could picture
the soft French countryside rolling by, the wooden fences, the stone cottages and boundaries. She could feel the sunset stain the horizon a seashell pink. She could imagine children running naked through the vegetable garden while Mama weeded and Papa sat drinking vin ordinaire on the mossy patio. Her imagination helped keep her going, distracting her from her ordeal.

  If only she had been allowed to telephone the information to Washington. But she understood well enough that this was special courier information—and she was the special courier. No phones. She longed for a hotel room, a hot bath, and some good food. Riding in the back of a truck, in a stage box, alongside your own waste, was about as bad as it gets, she thought.

  Hours later the truck stopped again. No one needed to tell her where she was—she could smell the sea. She expected the door to open and the driver to free her. Instead she heard the padlock click open, followed by three loud bangs. Three hits: trouble.

  The back door screeched open.

  “How long?” she heard the driver’s deep voice ask in French. What followed amounted to an impromptu negotiation for a lower price on the unloading of the gear. The driver’s main concern was time, and she knew why. If the unloading took too long, the loading would begin, and there would be no time for her escape. She would find herself aboard a cruise ship as a stowaway. The voices bantered back and forth. The driver kept demanding a shorter time period; the other voice protested. More money was offered. It didn’t help. The unloading would take at least an hour.

  “No, no, no,” the driver shouted, banging the truck three times, repeating his signal to her.

  Trouble.

  ***

  The crate moved roughly from side to side. Two men grunted as they struggled with the weight. Sharon slid to a corner of the box, splinters lodging in her buttocks. She had the wind knocked out of her as the box pounded onto the dock. Then she felt a dizzying sensation as it was hoisted and boomed over the waiting ship and lowered into a hold. Intense heat surrounded her quickly. She mopped her forehead and unbuttoned her damp blouse. The crate rocked to the left; she slid to the other side. It bumped into place. She heard something heavy being placed next to the crate. Low voices complained of the heat. Then silence. A long and chilling silence, followed by the loud slam of the hold’s doors closing shut.

  In absolute darkness, she reached for the strap and pulled to release the hinged panel. The catch freed, but the door stopped immediately. It was blocked. She panicked, turning around to open the opposite panel. But it too was blocked. She pushed against it, then leaned, then kicked it with her feet, but it would not budge. Crates had been placed on either side of the magician’s trick box. She screamed, “Help me!” and then covered her mouth quickly, thinking, What am I doing? What am I doing?

  At the same moment, while the crew prepared La Mer Verde for departure, a man rounded the corner of a warehouse and walked hurriedly toward the ship. As the thick heavy lines were pulled aboard, the man climbed the steep steps to the main deck and showed his papers. He had been sent by the union to replace a crewman who had reported ill at the last minute. He greeted the hard, warm wind with a thin smile. He was a tall man and had thick lips…

  ***

  She had been trapped in the box for hours—to her it seemed more like days—by the time she finally heard footsteps. “Help me,” she cried weakly through a crack. Her movements were painful, her joints paralyzed.

  “Hello?” He spoke English with a thick French accent.

  “Help me, please.” Her words were feeble, lifeless.

  “Hello?” His voice was closer.

  “Over here. I can’t get out.”

  “My God!”

  She heard the crate in front of her scrape the deck as it was moved. She smiled wanly. Finally. The trap door fell open and air rushed in on her, smelling as clean as a Maryland spring garden despite its rankness. She stretched an arm through the open door.

  He had the firm, calloused hands of a man of the sea. His grip was powerful, and she welcomed this strength, for she had almost none of her own left. He pulled her gently from her prison, her cell.

  “My God!” he said again. “A stowaway.”

  He stared down at her. She was wearing tiny bikini underwear, her unbuttoned blouse hanging off her, her skin flushed with heat rash. He led her to a crate. She pulled her blouse closed and sat down facing him, struggling to button the blouse. Her eyes hurt from the overhead light.

  He leaned forward. “Here. Allow me to help.”

  She pulled away from him.

  He didn’t seem to care. He drew closer. “I won’t hurt you. I promise. Here.” He fastened several of her buttons without making any contact. He backed off and fanned the foul air escaping from the crate. She was delirious, her head swimming. He was young and handsome in a Gallic way. He wore no shirt, and his dark skin was covered with hair. His teeth were extremely white. “You came on in Le Havre?”

  She shrugged, too weak to talk. She took a deep breath and managed to say softly, “You must not turn me in. Please. Please, don’t turn me in.”

  He laughed. “There’s not a sailor on this ship who would turn you in.”

  She had rehearsed it all so many times, she was able to force the words out. “I have money.”

  He grinned, though she did not see him do so. Her eyes were pinched closed. He said, “Money. Well, well.”

  “Yes.” She nodded.

  “You have belongings?”

  She tried to point.

  He dropped to his knees and peered inside. The stench overpowered him. He fanned the air in front of him and located her clothes and purse. He pulled them out. The clothes were wet and flattened into an unrecognizable pad of stained fabric. He pulled the pile apart with some difficulty, and helped her into her skirt. He put it on her backward by mistake.

  “Can you walk?” he asked her.

  She nodded, stood to make the effort, and collapsed. He caught her and picked her up in his arms, cradling her. Her head sagged, and he tried to adjust his hold on her. She reached up and held on around his neck.

  He smiled. “You will be fine. Don’t worry. My name is François. What is your name, please?”

  “Sharon,” she told him. “My name is Sharon. What will you do with me?”

  He felt her tremble in his arms and saw the desperation written on her face. “You must not worry, Sharon. It is the French sailor’s code to help the sick, the injured, not to take advantage of them. Please do not worry. I will help you. Only to help you.”

  He ascended a long spiral staircase carefully. At the top, an exit led to the crew’s quarters, K deck, well below the waterline. He set her down before opening the door and made certain the hallway was clear before carrying her inside. There were always one or two crew members willing to report a stowaway. Stowaways were not that unusual on the Roget Line—several turned up in an average year, each with a different story, a different kind of desperation. The rude or violent were turned over without question. The Sharons were more often protected and nourished.

  Claudia lay on her bed reading a book about whales. François knocked and then let himself in, still carrying Sharon. Claudia exclaimed, “What is it, François, mon dieu, what have you found?”

  “She stowed away in a crate in the Sweat Shop. Been there since Le Havre by the look of her. Can you imagine twelve hours in the Sweat Shop? I thought you and Katrina could…”

  “Of course. Put her over there.” Claudia hopped out of the tiny bunk space. She wore very little clothing but was not the least embarrassed. François took no notice. “She is pretty.”

  “Yes. I will get her some food. You can help clean her up, find her some clothes. She needs a good bed for a change.”

  “Katrina and I work in split shifts now. Always a bunk open. You get her the food: some fruit, cheese perhaps, some ice and a glass, bottled water. Oh, and bring her one of those delicious cinnamon rolls. Nothing like a cinny to cheer one up. Hurry off, now. And not a word. I don’t trust t
hat new man down the hall at all. We had better keep her to ourselves.”

  He was nearly out the door when Claudia asked her name. Francois told her. Claudia looked over at her guest, who was propped on a chair and hanging onto the corner sink for balance. “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

  Sharon forced a smile.

  20

  “Ready?” Jay spun the wheel sharply to port, bringing the bow into the wind, and waited for the sails to luff. He straightened the wheel frantically. “Now,” he commanded.

  Marlene loosened the jib’s halyard and let it go. The jib fell toward the deck, its metal clasps singing against the stay. She bunched it as a woman might remove a bed sheet from a clothesline.

  Jay held The Lady Fine into the wind, as waves slapped against the hull.

  Marlene hurried to the mast and untied the main halyard from the cleat. “All right?” she asked loudly.

  “Yes.” The mainsail tumbled downward in asymmetric folds. Having released the mizzen’s sheet, he stood alongside the cockpit as he and Marlene quickly bunched and rolled the mainsail, furling the tenacious sailcloth. He tossed her several bungie cords and she caught them easily. The two secured the sail. Marlene moved forward to bag the jib. Jay furled the mizzen sail expertly. He switched on the diesel, threw the gear lever forward, and set the throttle low. They were a quarter mile off Shilshole. Their tasks done for now, they met in the cockpit. She was smiling broadly, full of life, gooseflesh running up her arms.

  “You’re cold,” he observed.

  “It is chilly all of a sudden.”

  “Storm’s on its way.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Around here, more often than not.”

  She opened the hatch into the main cabin/galley. “Would you care for a beer?”

  “Please. If you’re having one.”

  She returned in her yellow terry-cloth robe carrying two Rainiers. She handed him one. It spit as he popped it open. Sunlight sparkled off the rim of the can. She wanted to touch him. He possessed a confidence she admired; he seemed strong, so unlike herself. She wondered what a person like Jay Becker would do if Iben Holst attempted to blackmail him. What would he have done, in her place?