Grafalk ran at my heels, spraying the fire extinguisher. “Stop her, Sandy. Stop her!”
The sandy-haired man looked up from the tiller. He grabbed at me and tore a piece from my new shirt. I ran to the back of the boat. It was dark now and the water was black as the Brynulf cut through it. Running lights from other boats winked in the distance and I screamed futilely for help.
Grafalk charged onto the deck toward me, his face a maniacal mask, fire extinguisher gripped in front of him. I took a breath and jumped overboard.
28 The Fire Ship of Wodin
The black water was very cold. It washed the chemical from my aching face and I trod water for a few seconds, coughing to clear my lungs. For a minute I panicked, thinking of the depths stretching beneath me, and I took in a mouthful of water. Sputtering, choking, I forced myself to relax, to breathe deeply.
I kicked off my running shoes, then reached into the water and pulled off my socks and shirt. The Brynulf, under full sail, was moving at a good clip and had gone some thirty feet past me.
I was alone in the icy water. My toes were numb and the water hurt my face. I might last twenty minutes-not enough to swim to shore. I looked over my shoulder. The yacht started to turn. Firelight flickered through the starboard portholes. A searchlight lit up the water and Grafalk quickly picked me up. I tried not to panic, to breathe naturally.
The boat continued to come toward me. Swimming on my back, I saw Grafalk at the bow, a rifle in his hand. As the Brynulf came alongside, I took a breath and dove under the keel. I pushed my way along underneath until I came out the back. The engine wasn’t running-there were no chopping propeller blades to slice me.
Something slapped against my face as I surfaced. One of the ropes used for tying the boat was trailing in the water. I seized it and let the Brynulf tow me while Grafalk scanned the water with the searchlight. He turned it toward the stern. His face appeared at the side. The rifle pointed at me. I was too numb to dive.
A blinding flash came, but not from the gun. The galley fuel must have exploded. The shock knocked me loose from the rope and deflected Grafalk’s arm. A bullet grazed the water near me and the yacht moved away. A hatch cover blew off and a small fireball flew at the tiller.
Bit of the yacht broke off and floated past me. I seized a spar and leaned on it, kicking doggedly. My left shoulder ached from the cold.
The Brynulf continued to move away from me, her sails still catching the wind while Sandy struggled with them, finally letting them go so they hung limply. The yacht then floated in a little circle about fifteen yards from me, moved by the heat of the fire.
Grafalk appeared next to Sandy. I was close enough to see his shock of bleached white hair. He was arguing with Sandy, grabbing him. They struggled in the flickering light. Sandy wrenched himself free and leaped overboard.
Grafalk shook his arms in fury. Walking to the stern, rifle in hand, he searched the water and found me. He pointed the rifle and stood there for a long minute, sighting me. I was too frozen to dive, too frozen to do anything except move my legs mechanically up and down.
Suddenly he dropped the rifle over the side and raised his right arm in a salute at me. Slowly he walked toward the flaming tiller. Another explosion came, this one jarring my numb arms. It must have stove in the side, for the yacht began to sink.
I thought I saw Wodin, who cares nothing for murder, come for this out-of-time Viking to carry him off in his dragon-ship pyre. As the Brynulf went down a sudden gust tore loose a flaming shard from one of the sails and sent it over my head. It lit up the black fearsome water around me: Wodin was calling me. I clung to my spar, gritting my teeth.
Strange hands pulled me from the water. The spar was locked in my fingers. I was babbling of gods and dragon ships. There was no trace of the Brynulf.
29 The Long Good-bye
We sat on a stone terrace overlooking Lake Michigan. The water, pale blue under a soft summer sky, lapped gently at the sand below us. A green canvas awning protected our faces. The May day was bright and clear, although the air was cool out of the direct light of the sun. I buttoned my green serge jacket up to my chin.
Claire Grafalk inspected the brass and teak trolley. I could see a bottle of Taittinger poking over the side of a silver ice bucket. Some salmon, something that looked like a duck sliced and reassembled, and a salad were the only items I could identify without peering too greedily.
“Thank you, Karen. We can take care of ourselves.” As the stocky maid disappeared up the path toward the house, Mrs. Grafalk deftly uncorked the champagne and poured it into a tulip glass.
“I don’t drink myself, but I enjoy serving champagne-I hope you like this.”
I muttered something appreciative. She poured water for herself and handed me a plate, creamy bone china with her initials on it twined in a green and gold wreath. She was wearing a gray shirtwaist dress with a scarf neck and a strand of heavy pearls. Her high cheekbones were covered with the circles of rouge which were doll-like yet somehow elegant and endearing.
She perched her head, birdlike, on one side, eyeing me questioningly but not talking until I had filled my plate. I sipped the champagne and ate a little cold duck. Both were excellent.
“Now, I must hear what happened. The papers gave only the sketchiest accounts. What happened to Niels’s boat?”
“There was an accident in the galley and the hull caught fire.” This was the answer I had given to the police and to Murray Ryerson and I wasn’t going to change it now.
Mrs. Grafalk shook her head vigorously. “No, my dear. That won’t do. Gordon Firth, the chairman of Ajax, came to visit me two days ago with a most extraordinary story about Niels. He had a young Englishman with him, Roger Ferrant. Mr. Ferrant says you and he discovered that Niels was running Grafalk Steamship at a loss and had cause to suspect him of blowing up Martin’s ship.”
I put the champagne glass down.
“And what do you want me to tell you?”
She looked at me sharply. “The truth. I still have to deal with this matter. I am still Niels’s chief heir; I shall have to dispose of the remaining assets of Grafalk Steamship somehow. Martin Bledsoe would be the ideal person to take over the company. He and I-were good friends a number of years ago and I still have a special spot for him. But I must know the whole story before I talk to him or to my lawyers.”
“I don’t have any proof-just a chain of suggestions. Surely you don’t want to hear a lot of unsubstantiated allegations. The police or the FBI or the Coast Guard may find proof of wrongdoing. But they may well not. Wouldn’t you prefer to let the dead bury the dead?”
“Miss Warshawski. I am going to tell you something that no one besides Karen knows. I expect you to respect my privacy-but if you don’t, it doesn’t matter that much. Niels and I have lived as two neighbors for over a decade.” She fluttered small, ring-covered hands. “We gradually grew apart. It happens that way, you know. Then he became more and more obsessed by Grafalk Steamship. He couldn’t think about anything else. He was bitterly disappointed that our son wasn’t interested in the steamship company: Peter is a cellist. Our daughter is a thoracic surgeon. When it became clear that no one of his name lived to care about Grafalk Steamship, Niels removed himself emotionally from the house.