Читать книгу Cold Blood, Hot Sea - Charlene D'Avanzo - Страница 11

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PETER SAW IT COMING. HE stretched out his arms as if he could deflect the tonnage, but his legs stayed glued to the deck. The bottom of the buoy hit Peter squarely in the chest. He fell backward and the entire thing rolled on top of him.

Peter’s screams tore through the squall like a jagged knife through flesh. The captain sounded the alarm call. Frantic crew and scientists scrambled toward Peter, but there was nothing they could do. Ryan wrestled with the stuck winch, swearing a black streak like the Irish sailor he was.

It seemed like an hour but was probably less than a minute before the winch kicked in and lifted the buoy up and off Peter. He’d stopped screaming, and his leg below the hip was twisted at a sickening angle. Blood had undoubtedly pooled inside his jacket and pants, but only rain mixed with ocean spray ran across the ship’s deck.

Two medics ran to Peter’s side. Deckhands dropped to their knees and made a colorful semicircle around the stricken scientist. They waited while the captain and medical crew checked Peter’s vitals. Peter looked peaceful, like he was asleep on the tossing deck.

Stunned, I held on to the ladder.

“He wants to talk to someone named Mara before we lift him up!” Coast Guard search and rescue hollered over the helicopter’s roar sixty feet above. I scampered behind the man and knelt beside the rescue basket.

Shrouded and strapped, only Peter’s head was exposed. In tight curls, his sandy hair was wet. The day after we got back, Peter was going to get a haircut, he’d said.

I bent over, my mouth next to his ear. “I’m here, Peter.”

Peter’s eyes fluttered open. I leaned closer. His words were slurred, halting, urgent.

“Not your fault, Mara. Not your fault.”

Before I could respond, his eyes closed, and the strain around them faded as he slid into unconsciousness.

“Not your fault.” What did he mean? Maybe that he volunteered to take my place. Or something was amiss with the buoy. I stood and stepped away from the basket. The medic gave the signal. As Peter rose off the deck toward the waiting helicopter, tears and sheeting rain ran together on my uplifted face.

The mess was nearly empty. Harvey, Ted, and I slid into a corner booth. A couple of crewmembers huddled together across the room stopped talking and between whispers glanced over at us.

Harvey sat next to me, head bent, elbows on the table. Again and again she ran her fingers through frowzy hair, trying to straighten out what couldn’t be fixed. Unseeing, I stared ahead, replaying the movie of a buoy falling in slow motion.

Ted’s voice broke in, gentle but firm. “We’ve got to talk about the rest of the cruise.”

Seymour was on the bridge with the captain, so we could be candid.

Harvey straightened her back and coughed. “I keep thinking Peter will stroll in and joke about why he’s late. He must be in the operating room fighting for his life.”

I nodded. In the last hour, I’d roller coastered between shock, guilt, anger, and incredulity. I was spent.

Ted said, “We have to talk to the captain, of course, but should we scuttle the trip?”

Harvey leaned back and crossed her arms. “This is the second mishap in less than a day—by far worst. What’s going on?”

We looked at one another. I said, “I have no idea. But wouldn’t Peter want us to keep to the schedule and steam back tomorrow afternoon as planned?”

She put her hand on mine and squeezed it. “Yes. He would.” Harvey kicked into gear. “Okay. We need a research plan which I’ll pass by the captain. There are only two buoys left now. I’m scheduled to deploy rosette water samplers, but that’s straightforward. Mara, do you still want to try out the new Video Plankton Recorder?”

“I’ll wait on the VPR.” The instrument was brand new, but even photos of microscopic critters taken right in the water didn’t interest me now.

“I can supervise another deployment,” Harvey said. “Want to do one, Ted?”

“If that’s okay with Mara.”

After what had just happened, I wasn’t about to take any chances. I gave Ted a quick nod. “Thanks. And Harvey and I can handle the water samples.” I touched the caddy at the end of the table. The salt and pepper shakers didn’t rattle. “The storm’s passing us now.”

As Harvey and Ted discussed the winch malfunction, their voices faded into the drone of the ship’s motor.

Harvey brought me back. “Mara, what are you thinking?”

“We’ve all heard about winch accidents of the past. Shutoffs didn’t work, cables snapped, unsecured wire lashed across the deck. But that was before the regs.”

Two lines formed between Harvey’s eyebrows. “And?”

“Peter halted the deployment twice. He must’ve noticed something. And before the copter lifted him up, Peter mumbled ‘not your fault.’ So maybe he guessed it was someone else’s fault.”

Harvey reached across the table and put her hand on Ted’s. “Tell me again what Ryan said?”

Ted squeezed Harvey’s hand and let it go. “The winch fouled. He freed it just as the ship pitched, and the buoy dropped. Which sounds like an accident to me. And the captain is calling it that, maybe a defective winch.”

Harvey turned toward me. “Mara, do you have another idea?”

“What if there’s inexperienced crew on board? Maybe the buoy-winch linkage wasn’t set up right.”

Harvey said, “You mean incompetence caused what happened?”

“Yes.”

“The crew looked first rate for this morning’s deployment,” Ted said. “But can’t we talk about all this back at MOI? We’ve got a lot of work to do, and we’re down an experienced scientist.”

Harvey got up. “I’ll get up to the bridge and speak with the captain.”

Ted slid out of the booth and stood next to her. It looked as though he was going to put his arm around Harvey’s shoulder, like he was worried about her. “Want company?”

They walked out together.

I wished Ted had shown more interest in my guess about the crew and less in Harvey.

What followed was a long, long night. Thank god, the sea was calm.

There was much to accomplish and everyone—scientists, grad students, crew—rotated shifts to get it done. In and out of spotlights and shadows, we crowded the decks, and called out to each other. Over and over, we set and retrieved water sample arrays. We deployed the buoys with a new winch. In between it all, I hardly slept. I tried to catnap on my bunk, but all I could think about was Peter.

The captain kept us current on his condition—critical, no change.

At dawn, the sun erased a purple-red splash on the horizon above a placid sea, and by noon Intrepid was carrying its melancholy passengers home. I was about to tackle the first ladder down to the staterooms. A mousy man a couple of inches shorter than I am walked up.

“Dr. Tusconi, John Hamilton. Apologize for not introducing myself. With all that’s happened—so terribly sorry.”

Hamilton tossed his black knit cap from one hand to the other. With his deeply creased forehead, worried eyes, and downturned lips, the guy looked undeniably sad. I mumbled a few words of thanks. He nodded and walked away. It took me a minute to recall that he was Seymour’s friend. He sure seemed a lot nicer than Seymour.

I was out on deck, duffle bag at my feet, when the first features of Spruce Harbor came into view. Actually, the Juniper Ledge bell buoy’s clanging first announced the harbor’s presence. In perfect order, houses and docks took shape, as if the town didn’t yet know what had happened.

The ship passed the twin headlands protecting the harbor and left behind the buoys and what they’d tell us. Compared to the horror Peter and his family were going through, the April temperature data seemed a whole lot less important.

RV Intrepid slid alongside the institute’s dock. As the crew secured the boat, I leaned over the rail and looked out at the venerable MOI brick buildings. My parents had worked in the same one that housed my lab and office now. The shadow of an idea drifted by and faded with a more immediate thought.

Harvey joined me. “You okay?”

“Just musing. Our building, my parents dead, maybe Peter dead. It looked like he was, you know, sleeping there on the deck.”

A tall man with white curly hair jogged around the nearest building. He waved and called out, “Mara!”

Warmth filled me. “Angelo! I wasn’t expecting you.”

I turned to Harvey. “See you tomorrow. Get some sleep. You deserve it.”

My godfather met me at the bottom of the gangway and led me to the side. His handsome face was pinched, and with dark smudges beneath them, his eyes looked cloud gray without the usual flecks of blue. Hands on my shoulders, he glanced down as if he’d worried I’d lost a body part. “I had to see that you were all right.”

Angelo enveloped me, and I leaned into the softness of his down vest. My exhaustion and anguish gave way to tears. He let me go, and I stepped back and pulled myself together.

“My god, Mara. When I heard on the VHF about an accident on Intrepid. Well—”

“It was awful, dreadful. There’s so much to talk about. But not now.”

“I’ll make a nice dinner tonight. We can talk then. Okay, sweetheart?”

That sounded perfect. Angelo strode away with a brisk step, and he waved at two seamen on their way to the ship. I watched until my godfather disappeared around the corner.

With the ship docked, we had to unload her. Even after a two-day trip, there was a lot to haul. Scientists and students marched up and down the gangway with crates of water samples, chemicals, computers—all the paraphernalia they’d brought aboard. Everything had to be moved to the loading dock, up the elevator, and into MOI labs. After it was stowed, people could go home to hot showers and meals with their housemates and spouses.

Except Peter, of course.

I did a final check of my lab. The microscopes were back in their usual places, computers reconnected, water samples stored safely in the freezer. All in good order, except for a flash drive I’d stashed in a drawer in Intrepid’s main lab. With a sigh, I schlepped back to the ship.

I stepped off the gangway. Two men caught my eye. Seymour was talking to a crewmate—liver-eyed Jake. Seymour’s face was inches away from Jake’s nose as the crewmate backed away. Hidden by a portable van, I slipped closer. The van blocked my view, but I could easily hear them.

Seymour growled, “Don’t give me that duff. You’re a clumsy fool!”

“But I mean that—”

“You mean? Mean what?”

Pause. Someone spoke in a calm, firm voice. Ted.

“Gentlemen, either of you need help?”

I backed off. The last thing I needed was for Seymour and Ted to see me spying on them. I made my way to the lab, pocketed the flash drive, and leaned against the counter. Seymour only spoke to the crew if he had to. But clearly Jake did something to make Seymour livid. Maybe the crewmate was somehow involved in the buoy disaster. If Seymour knew that, maybe he also knew why Peter kept checking that buoy—and other critical pieces of information.

Angelo De Luca is a widower who frustrates Spruce Harbor’s older ladies. He’s got a full head of hair—thick, white, and swept back—and a square chin sometimes darkened by stubble that gives him a rugged look. With the classic aquiline nose he calls beaked, his face would be at home on an old Roman coin. And, he can pull in a fighting bluefish no sweat.

But four years after they were married, Angelo’s wife died in a car accident. She was twenty-five. Angelo says he’ll never love another. Recently retired from MOI, Angelo is a brilliant marine engineer. In the 1960s, his oceanographic engineering teams designed instruments to help meteorologists make better weather models. That saved lives of Maine fishermen and boaters, some of them now his friends.

Angelo’s home sits atop a bluff at the tip of Seal Point, one of Spruce Harbor’s two headlands. At seven on the dot, my car splattered pebbles across the driveway as I swung to a stop. I reached for the door and hesitated, hand in mid-air. In order to make it on time, I’d driven too fast—and now wasn’t ready to get out of the car.

Leaning back against the headrest, I deliberated in the shadow of the old gray shingled cottage that had been my refuge for the last eleven years.

I was uncertain about what to tell Angelo. I wanted him to know that Peter was injured by a buoy I was scheduled to deploy. But I had no evidence that inexperienced crewmembers might’ve been the cause. Maybe I was over-reacting to what Intrepid’s captain guessed was an accident caused by a defective winch.

Start with the buoy, that’s it. As a marine engineer, Angelo was the perfect person to ask why a winch designed not to fail did fail. Even better, Angelo helped lead buoy cruises on the newly acquired Intrepid. I stepped out of the car and walked briskly up the granite steps.

I kissed my godfather on the top of the head. He smelled of sea with a touch of olive oil. I took the opposite armchair in front of the crackling fire. He wore the wool vest I’d given him for Christmas. The blend of fibers picked up hints of blue in his gray eyes. A glass of wine sat on the wooden coffee table.

Like every good Italian, Angelo talked with his hands. Palms up, he gestured toward the solo glass. “Want some? It’s Gavi, your favorite.”

“Gavi would be perfect.”

I leaned back in the chair and let out a long, slow breath. For the first time in days, I could let go and relax.

The living room—with wood planked floors and windows facing the harbor on one side and open Atlantic on the other—is my favorite. Growing up, I’d spent hours staring out those windows while Angelo and my parents talked about fish, fishermen, boats, and everything else to do with the sea.

Angelo returned with my wine and handed me the glass. “You seem far away.”

“Oh, just picturing myself when I was little, nose pressed against the pane.”

“The ocean was like a magnet for you.”

I gestured toward the harbor. “Gorgeous sunset tonight.”

Angelo nodded. For the evening’s show, clouds on the horizon were slowly fading from vermillion to shifting mixes of purple. They’d soon turn gray.

We sat in comfortable silence—as people who’d suffered and taken care of each other can do. Finally, the only light came from dancing flames in the fireplace. Angelo got up and turned on a brass table lamp in the middle of an antique cherry table.

It was time to sift through the events on Intrepid.

Angelo slipped into his chair. “Any news about Peter?”

My throat tightened. “I called the hospital twice. He’s unconscious in critical condition. I’ll try again tomorrow.” Staring at the dancing flames, I said, “I keep thinking about Sarah and the twins.”

“Of course you do.” He said quietly, “Tell me what happened.”

I hesitated. Angelo’s manner—careful speech and movement—signaled worry.

“I, well…”

“Mara, tell me. I need to know.”

It tumbled out—the rolling buoy, the big sea. Peter taking my place, checking the buoy twice, crushed beneath it, airlifted to the hospital.

Angelo’s face darkened with each revelation.

I finished, and he shook his head. “My god. What might’ve happened to you.”

He looked away and pressed his eyes shut for a moment.

I brought him back to what he knew best. “What can you tell me about the winch?”

“What make is it?”

“Shapley Render-Recover’s written on the side.”

“It’s new then, with top-of-the-line safety features.”

I rubbed my arms, suddenly cold. “So an accident seems unlikely?”

Angelo hesitated, his brow heavily wrinkled. “I’d think so, but accidents do happen. MOI will work with the Coast Guard to find out. They’ll want to interview you since you were right there.”

I nodded. “Good. I want to tell them a few things that are, ah, peculiar.”

“Yes?”

“I returned to the ship to retrieve a flash drive. Seymour was on deck dressing-down one of the crew.”

“What did Seymour say?”

“Something about being clumsy.”

“Anything else?”

“You know that little lab off the fantail deck?”

Angelo nodded.

“The senior scientists met there to review cruise details. We asked about the loose buoy, but Seymour didn’t care.”

Angelo frowned. “I’ve been on dozens of cruises and never saw a buoy roll on the deck. Seymour should’ve been alarmed.”

“Right. At the time, the untethered buoy was bizarre. Now it’s, I don’t know, more than that.” I hugged myself. “One more thing. Peter asked about a guy on the ship he’d never seen before.”

“And?”

“Seymour said he was a friend interested in our work.”

“It’s unusual he’d be on the cruise, but it happens if there’s space.”

I slumped back in my chair.

Angelo stood. “Mara, you must be exhausted. Let’s have dinner.”

The Italian solution to any problem. Food.

Angelo announced we’d have shrimp simmered in his special tomato sauce poured over pasta. In the kitchen, I sat at one end of the long pine table and watched him cook. With the quick, practiced movements of a chef, Angelo sautéed garlic and onions in olive oil and added tomatoes.

Angelo’s actions faded as images and emotions washed through me—crushing weight, smashed bones, Peter in the hospital, Sarah in tears, my own guilt and grief.

I sat back and closed my eyes. Angelo’s right. I was exhausted. I drank in the aroma of garlic simmering in olive oil. After a glass of wine, the cruise was far away and unreal.

Angelo heaped two plates with linguini, shrimp, and sauce. I cleaned my plate and smiled at my godfather. “Guess I was hungry. That was terrific.”

My cell phone rang. Harvey.

“May I come over?”

“Sure. I’m at Angelo’s. What’s happened?”

“Tell you when I get there.”

Fifteen minutes later, Harvey sat at the kitchen table. Her eyelashes were wet, face puffy. I held her hand and braced for the worst.

It was barely more than a whisper. “Peter died an hour ago.”