Читать книгу The Devil's Whelp - Vin Hammond Jackson - Страница 29

In another part of the ship, Inspector Caffrey was having similar thoughts. With Mildenberger holding the rough end of the stick, he was free to pursue his own line of enquiry, which he did on trembling legs with less than his usual enthusiasm. By sundown he had disproved Bill Rose's assurance that he'd be 'right as ninepence in a while', and was feeling sicker than ever. It had a lot to do with an all-pervading smell which he thought to be a combination of ozone and diesel fumes, but that wasn't the main reason for his uneasiness. What disturbed him the most was that he had been unable to discover a good enough excuse to call up the helicopter which would take them off this noisy, obnoxious, floating death-trap. They had no option but to stay over.

This night was a strange one, he thought, unlike any other that he could recall. He and Margaret had gone out to the beach - when was that, last evening, or before? - to look at the stars. Away from the brightness of town the glittering pin-points had appeared so clear and serene. The night sky had been full of them. Now, when he looked up he was unable to see past the artificial halo created around Olympian by a network of glaring floodlights.

Without a sky or anything natural to relate to, his mind drifted to the unnatural considerations of his immediate environment. Illuminated by so many suns, the area directly beneath was as bright as day; but beyond, the shadows increased and intensified. Within them lay not only the dangers of an over-active imagination, but those of a physical nature which caused heads to bump and shins to bark on protrusions all-too clear in daylight.

People had changed too. There were as many now as there had been earlier because the Oil Show had to go on, but the grimy, unshaven workers who swarmed over the ship like busy ants during the day shift seemed to gravitate towards the brightest parts of the rig once night fell. The few he did encounter away from the lights seemed little more than dark spectres stalking the decks. Some walked together. Their whispered jokes had become more crude, macabre even, their laughter cruel and sinister, but because they were otherwise occupied, they tended to ignore him, and he reciprocated. It was the lone individuals of whom he was most wary. They were, he fancied, more stealthy, more ghostly and just seemed to appear out of nowhere. Were they friends, foes, or the Grim Reaper himself? Ernest was unsure, so he tried to wear a smile with which to greet these shadowy figures when they approached, hoping it might placate their restless spirits; in truth, however, he had a terrible feeling his faith was misplaced and that a crucifix and a string of garlic might lend greater protection.

Clem Berry rarely entertained such notions. A down-to-earth professional, he preferred VU meters and LCD read-outs to emotional supposition. Not that he wouldn't grant credence to certain unexplained phenomena - UFOs were a fact of life, despite what official USAF reports would have everyone believe - but he reckoned his job would be a whole lot harder to do from inside a straight-jacket, so he kept his mind on his work and anything else was none of his business. He was at the controls of his precious stack when the Inspector tottered up. He heard the footsteps and turned, his usual benevolent smile spreading across his round Texan face. "Nice night for it, Inspector. How yo'all doin'?"

Caffrey breathed a heavy sigh of relief: the great looming monster was a friend! "Fine, thank you," he lied. "May I ask what that is?" He pointed at the console. "It appears to be extremely technical."

Clem's arms spread. It looked as though he was about to embrace a prodigal son. Instead, he placed two enormous hands lovingly on his equipment. "This, my friend, is your life. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, but ol' Clem's baby here's the middle man. It controls the stack, Inspector. That's the blowout preventer which sits down there on that little ol' hole and keeps the lid on it."

Ernest was nodding, although he was still none the wiser. "What exactly does it do, er - Clem, was it?"

"Clem Berry, Inspector." He swung and presented a large hand for Caffrey to take. "Sub-Sea engineer. It monitors the pressure build-up in the hole and I can release it under strict control from up here on deck. You see, I just check these little ol'....." Clem's head seemed to shoot forward on his massive shoulders as he spotted something. "What the heck? Aw, shit! Another Goddamn leak. Sonofabitch!"

His hands moved about the console with restrained urgency. Ernest stood back, not just to give the huge man room to work, but because Clem's talk of blowouts and pressure build-ups made him somewhat nervous of a piece of machinery that might explode in his face at any moment. He was uncertain whether it would, or even could, but he hadn't reached fifty by being apathetic regarding things about which he knew absolutely nothing.

Clem appeared to have finished his adjustments. He made a brief visual check of the console, then bustled over to the TV monitor. He panned the camera for a few moments. "Hell, what's that?" He backed it up. Whatever he thought he'd seen had gone. He continued until he discovered a problem not so fleeting. "Aw no! Jesus Christ, not again!"

The sub-sea engineer's hand drifted up to rub the back of his neck while he pondered the situation. Then he shook his head, sighed, and turned to face Caffrey. "Would you consider doing me a favour, Inspector?"

"If I can."

"I need to have the toolpusher here. Do you think you could find him for me?"

"Del Presswood? Yes, I suppose I could, but wouldn't it be quicker to call him? I've noticed you have an intercom system on board."

"Don't think that'd be such a wise decision, Inspector." He stepped aside. "Just take a look."

Caffrey moved closer. The screen was only small and it had a tendency to flicker. On top of that, he wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to be looking for and began by regarding the picture much the same way as he would an abstract painting. After a moment or two, the patchwork of vague, ambiguous images started to make more sense and he suddenly realised that he was viewing equipment beneath the sea, possibly on the ocean floor itself, or at least near it. Then he recognised a shape, or thought he did. It seemed out of context when all he was expecting to see was an assembly of mechanical features. This object moved - slowly, gracefully, perhaps influenced by an underwater current. When it finally came to rest, the shape was much more clearly defined. "It's a man," decided Ernest. "Is there a diver down?"

"Nope. And if there was, he just might find the need to breathe once in a while. Cain't see no air lines, can you?"

Caffrey looked again. The big American was right - there was no sign of breathing apparatus of any kind. "Then it must be the missing man, the friend of the murder victim."

"You might just be right, Inspector. Don't know of anyone else gone AWOL and it sure as hell don't look like no mermaid."

Caffrey stood back and checked the deck both ways. He nodded at the TV monitor. "You'd better tune to another channel before you get an audience. I'll go and find Del. We'll need a diver to bring up the body, of course. Who do I see to arrange that?"

Clem was already in the process of panning the camera to a less dramatic scene. He spoke over his shoulder: "Just get the toolpusher: he'll fix it." The sigh Clem now produced was more emphatic than his first as he slowly expelled the remaining air from his lungs. "Jack ain't gonna like this. He ain't gonna like it one little bit."