Henry’s yel was too late. At top speed, the dog bounded straight for the edge of the deck. Henry held his breath. Just when he was sure Shep would fly off the deck and fall forty feet into the roiling waters, the dog stopped on a dime and stood staring at the ocean, wagging his tail.
Henry walked as calmly as he could to pick up Shep’s leash, but, as he did so, more and more of the turbulent sea came into view. His knees felt weak. Shep just stood at the precipice, looking down at the waves, then at Henry, then back to the waves. His nostrils flared and he wagged his tail ever more vigorously as he smelled the wind. The same wind that to Henry’s mind had here become a feared adversary, one that might turn on him and try to sweep his dog into the ocean.
At the edge, Henry could hear the sea pounding against the hull.
“Come on, Shep.” He tried to keep his voice under control. “I know it’s nice and cool out here, but you’re spookin’ the shit outta me.” He picked up the leash and wrapped it twice around his hand.
Now, of course, he’d guaranteed that, if the malamute went over the edge, so would he. But that didn’t seem to be on his mind. Keeping Shep alive — safe — was all that mattered.
The dog offered no resistance, coming easily at his master’s tug on the leash. Henry took another brief look over the edge. The water was moving past the ship in great foaming swells.
He considered the movement and estimated they were doing twenty knots or more, with a fifteen-knot headwind. The sea seemed to be reaching up for him. He shivered, not from the cold but from the vast, impersonal emptiness of it. He turned away from the rim and pulled Shep with him.
A moment later Shep took a leak, seemingly just so his grateful master could get back inside.
“Good dog.”
Henry and dog ducked back into the ship.
Sarah had invited Henry to her room without saying what her summons was about. She had him sit at the desk where her laptop computer was open and running. The face of the terrorist leader they’d been trying to construct was on the screen. Seeing the constructed face again convinced him they hadn’t come close to capturing the image he remembered.
Henry started singing, “It’s the riiiight time, and the riiiight place. Though this faaace is charming, it’s the wrooong faaaace…”
Sarah looked at him with a patronizing grin. “Very nice, Henry. When you’ve finished with your serenade, I’ll tell you what’s going on.”
“I know what’s going on. We’re wasting time and money cruising the South Atlantic in the world’s biggest yacht, for no reason that I can see.”
“That may be. But we might as well try to keep ourselves busy, right?”
“I’m not a federal employee,” Henry said.
“Oh yes you are! At least, you are for the moment, until we find the bastards who shot you. Or don’t you care any more about skinning them alive, or whatever it was you said you…”
“So what’s this about?” he interrupted, pointing to the laptop.
“The FBI wired me a new program for us to try. It adds texture and more variations. They also want me to — to try to help you remember.”
She told him to rol up his sleeve, then took out a small hypo. “You’re not planning on doing any driving for a few hours, are you, Henry?”
“Fuck!”
“Not tonight, dear.” She smiled. “But I haven’t scratched it off my list.”
Her reply caught him off-guard. “What?”
“Never mind. This will help you relax and remember.”
When she saw the trepidation in his eyes, she adopted a more sympathetic air. “Look, I’m a trained nurse — that’s what I did before I took this job. Anyway, this is just to help you remember. It’s a mild relaxant.”
Henry demanded proof she’d been a registered nurse. She had it in her case, with her passport and all the rest of her documentation. She flipped the blue-and- white card from a wall et in her bag.
Then she once more picked up the needle and the cotton swab she’d soaked in alcohol. “Arm?”
He held up his wounded arm. “This one’s already got a hole in it,” he said. “Can’t you just pour the stuff in?”
“Not likely.”
Sarah jammed the hypo into his arm.
He winced histrionically, but in fact he didn’t feel a thing. His skin was still numb after being on deck without a polar jacket. Besides, he had to admit that spending time with Sarah was about all he wanted to do anyway.
He’d caught himself earlier, every time he’d passed her door, wondering if she was in there. Shep had sniffed at her door once, making him think the dog could read his mind.
The chemical Sarah gave Henry was very low-power stuff, but it was enough. He began to feel as though his head were filling with helium. Then everything around him took on a golden glow.
“Look at the face on the screen, then close your eyes and think of the guy who shot you,” she said in a studiously casual voice. “Try to wipe all the rest of your thoughts and feelings from your mind.”
A few seconds passed.
“Can you see him yet?” she asked.
“Sort of,” replied Henry, eyes closed, trying to cooperate.
“Can you see him or not?” she persisted. “I need to know.”
“Well…” He was doing his best to put himself back on the ice. “I’m working on it.”
Just before he’d shut his eyes, Sarah had leaned over to adjust the laptop screen so he could see it better. As she’d bent near him, her white silk blouse had fall en open in a way few men could have ignored. Now all he could see behind his closed eyes were white lace and smooth skin. He noticed the scent of jasmine in the air.
“Are you concentrating?”
“Oh, yes,” he said with a smile. “But I guess I’m not getting any… anything.”
“Fuck!” said Sarah under her breath.
Henry continued to smile. He nodded involuntarily.
She took a deep breath. “Okay. You’re going to be like this for a while, so just sit back and let the drug help you remember.”
He opened his eyes again and forced himself to look at the image on the screen. “Okay. Okay… I got it, I think.”
And suddenly he could see the man who’d shot him. As if a flash bulb had snapped in his mind, he saw the distinguished features of a man in his forties. The man had piercing brown eyes and thin black eyebrows, and he wore a moustache and beard tinged with grey, but short and well trimmed. The hood surrounding his face was that of a Norwegian parka lined with long beige fur. Henry forced himself to try to notice other details — distinguishing marks, moles, scars — but the man had none he could see. His skin was smooth. To Henry he looked Greek or Italian, definitely Mediterranean.
“What else?” he said to himself.
“What was that, Henry?” asked Sarah.
He shook his head slowly as his mind’s eye tried to make out other distinguishing characteristics. Everything was normal — just stereotypical gear. Blue ski pants, padded boots.
And, yes, there was something. Not much, but Henry remembered.
He looked up at Sarah. “Something,” he slurred.
She smiled. “What?”
“He… the man who shot me…”
Henry noticed she had blue eyes. They shone when she smiled. Her reddish hair made them look all the bluer.
“What?” she said.
“What?” he echoed.
“What about the man who shot you?” A spot of impatience now.
“Oh,” said Henry. “He was a lefty. Left-handed.”
“What do you recall that tell s you that?”
He talked as though in a daze, but his mind was sharp. “The reason I didn’t duck when he pulled the gun was… was he took it off his right shoulder. Didn’t look like he was going to shoot — just moving it, like. Then he shot me left-handed. I didn’t expect it.”