There was something terribly unnerving about the Berber. He wasn’t particularly tall. He wasn’t particularly strong. He was, well… ordinary. Until you looked into his eyes. Then a palpable fear took hold. It was difficult to describe. His eyes were vacuous, bereft of feeling, of the compassion that made one human. Soulless, somehow.
One time, years before, Captain Abdullah had taken his nephews to the zoo outside Algiers, and they had come across a large gorilla with the same discomforting expression. The animal had looked at them with understanding, with a sentient appraisal, but somehow empty, too — a spiritual castaway.
The Chief Steward called the Algerian bewitched, a marabout of the shadows. Yet he went out of his way to curry favor with him, cooking him special meals, and leaving them outside the Algerian’s fo’c’s’le every evening after Hammel got off his watch. Ali Hammel never ate with the other men. In fact, some wondered if he ate at all, for his plates seemed no less heaped with food the following morning. All this was known to Captain Abdullah. But how to get him off the ship? “It will not be easy,” he said at last.
“I didn’t think it would be,” Hammel replied.
The Captain took another swig of his Fanta and sat down at the table. “The only reason a man’s excused from duty is in the case of illness, or personal tragedy. Then, he might transfer to another ship, like the Rêve de Chantal, in the hopes of reaching homeward passage. It is a courtesy, no matter what the shipping line. It’s understood. But isn’t the Rêve bound for New York?”
“It will be easier for me to find passage there,” Hammel said. “Back to Algiers. What kind of illness?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Appendicitis. A case of fever, perhaps, but they would see right through that; you have no temperature. No. Something else,” the Captain said. “An injury. Some kind of incapacitating fall. A concussion, or a break.” He shrugged. “It is unfortunate you have to leave so soon. You’d like Brazil.”
Ali Hammel walked over to the Captain’s refrigerator, and slipped his foot into the crack between the metal siding and the scuffed Formica counter, as if he were rooting around for something that had fallen in between.
“Everybody does,” Captain Abdullah said. “The weather is beautiful this time of year. The food is wonderful, and cheap. And the women… ”
With a smile that lingered in the Captain’s head for weeks, the Algerian threw himself to the floor, across his own leg. There was a sickening snap as his knee popped out of place. The Captain leapt to his feet, knocking his chair over.
Hammel pushed himself slowly off the ground, using his forearms, trying to get up. He looked behind him. His right foot remained upright in the crack, while his body had turned completely over. He lay on his stomach. Pain contorted his face but he did not say a word. He did not utter a sound even as he twisted himself around, carefully, back onto his back, and removed his foot from between the refrigerator and the counter. It plopped out like a wounded fish onto the floor. The Captain looked down at the Algerian’s right knee. It was already swelling. It was already bubbling in his pants.
“An injury,” Hammel hissed through his front teeth, trying to control their chattering. He was going into shock. He pointed down. “Like this?”
Chapter 22
It took Decker a little over four hours to make the drive from New York to Falmouth, Massachusetts, on the Bruckner to I-95, and then east along 195 toward that little spit of land called Devil’s Foot, which juts out from the bottom of Cape Cod. As he approached the harbor, he noticed Martha’s Vineyard lying to the south, like a pearl gray shawl across the bright Atlantic. It was a beautiful winter day, cold and crisp, blown south and east from Manitoba and Ontario, from the arctic wastelands of the north.
By the time Decker entered Falmouth it was almost noon. He traveled south along the coast road until Clearview Avenue; until he saw the mailbox leaning inbetween a pair of stunted hemlocks to the left; the number six, in bright metallic tape; and, finally, turned and snaked his way along the long black gravel driveway leading to the bay.
A rambling white Cape Cod with pale blue shutters was perched on a rocky promontory overlooking the Atlantic and Falmouth Harbor, only two hundred yards from the shoreline. The lawn in front of the house was yellowed and studded with stone. The place looked deserted.
No one answered when Decker crossed the porch and rang the doorbell. Then he noticed the door. It was slightly ajar. He poked his head in, saying, “Hello. Hello, Dr. White?” He stepped inside. Someone else was in the house. He could hear them. “Hello?” he repeated. He had a sudden premonition that he was being watched. Then he saw a young woman in the next room — reflected in a pre-Revolutionary convex mirror — look up and catch his face, and stop, and slowly turn.
“Who are you?” she said, striding toward him with conviction. “And what the hell are you doing here?”
Decker stalled at her approach. “Looking for Dr. White. Dr. James L. White? Isn’t this his house?”
“Yes.”
Decker stared at the woman. He waited patiently, in silence, until she added, “I’m just squatting.”
Despite the bulky sweatshirt, despite the way her long blond hair was pinned up in a frumpy bun, despite her apparent aversion to any sort of makeup, the woman was absolutely stunning. She had bright, cerulean eyes, full lips, high cheekbones and the most delicate of noses. As a rule, Decker didn’t find blondes particularly attractive, but he caught himself staring at her unconsciously. She had disarmed him. It was rare to see a woman who was both beautiful and sexy. She could have been a model. No, a movie star, or… “I’m sorry,” he said. He took another step, stopped, looked about self-consciously, and added, “I’m here to see Dr. James L. White.”
“Yeah, you said that.”
She wore a pair of light blue jeans, he noticed. Very tight. And what looked like off-white Converse sneakers. “My name is Decker. John Decker, Jr. I’m with the FBI.”
For a moment, the woman looked startled. Fear swept across her face, like a sudden squall at sea. Then she collected herself. “The FBI,” she repeated nonchalantly. “Is something wrong?”
Decker smiled. He was used to this reaction. People often overcompensated. “No, nothing’s wrong,” he said. “I just have a few questions for Dr. White. Know where I might find him?”
She shook her head. Her neck was long, like that of a Balanchine dancer, and she wore a pair of tiny gold studs in her ears that twinkled as she moved. She was at least five feet ten inches, or taller — almost as tall as he was. “I’m afraid not,” she said. Then she thrust her hand out. “Hi, I’m Emily Swenson. I’m afraid James — I mean, Dr. White — is on a leave of absence. I’m looking for him too.”
They shook hands. Strong grip, he thought.
“His wife is sick,” she continued.
“Oh, sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope.”
For a moment she didn’t reply. Then she looked down at the floor and said, “It’s cancer, I’m afraid. Terminal. What’s this about?”
“I understand Dr. White is a highly respected expert on tsunamis. World-renowned,” said Decker. “I have a few questions that I thought he might help me with. When I called his office, the department secretary told me I might find him here, at home, but… ” His voice trailed off.