There had to be some kind of protection training learned at the FBI; Jackson finished his conversation with headquarters and then after his brief exchange with Thor went into immediate action. “There’s no real proof, but it seems that the satellite signals cross right here—on the Fate. Seems like he’s come here—or he’s very near here,” he told her. “We’re going to head into the police station.”
Clara nodded. “Whatever you say,” she told him.
“Kimball is off the island, too. He may—he may be trying to follow or find you.”
She tried for weak humor. “He does seem to like a good musical comedy.”
Tate Morley was aboard the Fate.
How the hell had he gotten on?
Passengers weren’t boarding—they wouldn’t be for days.
But Jackson Crow didn’t seem to be surprised.
“Morley—how?” she asked, trying to remain calm and in control.
“Morley is a master with fake papers and disguises that make him look like an ‘everyman,’” he told her briefly. “Security is coming down the hallway now—we’ll be off the ship and over to the police station as quickly as possible. A state police officer is heading this way. At his arrival, he’ll lead and I’ll follow until we’re off the ship.”
Clara felt as if the great glaciers themselves had found a way into her bloodstream. Even with everything happening, she hadn’t felt this sense of intimate personal danger until now. She swallowed and nodded; she was with Jackson. He had been her protector before; he had seen her through a bad and dangerous time. He would do so again.
“As soon as an officer gets here, we’ll head off the ship,” Jackson said.
“Well, you’re with me. I’m sure we could—”
“We’ll wait. If you want to gather a few things, it might be a good idea,” Jackson said.
“I’ll just grab my toothbrush and a few clothes,” Clara murmured.
She walked into her small bathroom. As she reached for her toothbrush to pack in a little toiletries bag, she was stunned to hear a scream—one so loud and piercing that it seemed to tear through the bowels of the ship.
She burst out of the bathroom. “Stay!” Jackson said. “Lock the door when I’m gone—the second I’m gone. Don’t open it!”
He headed out. “Wait, Jackson, don’t leave me!” she said.
But he was already walking away. He turned back. “Lock it!”
He left; she locked the door.
Pacing, she realized she was safe. She was almost below the waterline. No one was going to enter by her tiny porthole. The only way was the door.
And she didn’t intend to open it.
But Jackson had been gone only a matter of minutes when something slammed against her door.
She jumped, then she heard a voice. “My God, please, Clara! He’ll kill me. If he can’t talk to you, he’s going to kill me!”
She looked out the tiny peephole in her door.
And she saw Emmy Vincenzo, tiny, shaking—looking as if she’d been beaten with dark smudges beneath her eyes...a heavy bruise on one cheek.
And blood trickling down her forehead.
“Please, oh, God, please help me, Clara!”
She screamed, and seemed to slam against the door again as if she’d been stabbed.
Clara opened her cabin door.
Emmy Vincenzo was not alone.
15
Thor called Jackson immediately—no answer.
He continued to call him all the way to the ship. He tried to tell himself that there were logical reasons that Jackson didn’t answer.
Clara didn’t answer her cell, either.
He reached Enfield, who had told him there’d been an incident aboard the ship that Jackson was investigating; they were sending men out.
“Incident? What kind of incident?”
“I don’t know yet—screams reported. Crow is there. As soon as I know, I’ll get back with you.”
Yeah, Crow was there—but not answering Thor, either. At least the road was cleared for him when he reached the ship. He was ready with his credentials. He stopped at the ship’s one entry to meet with security, words on his lips before he could be asked the first question. “Special Agent Thor Erikson, here with the investigation into the recent barbaric murders in Seward and Black Bear Island; I have reason to believe that someone involved with the case is on this ship now.”
He left the security officer just staring after him and he realized that the man had already been notified. The ship had gone on lockdown.
He dialed Jackson as he hurried aboard.
Still no answer.
Swearing, he hurried along to the main salon of the deck he had entered. Once there, he caught hold of the first young woman he saw in a crew uniform.
“The ship is on lockdown,” the woman informed him. “Sir—”
“Special Agent Erikson,” he told her briefly. “The cast of Annabelle Lee—where are they?”
“Waterloo Deck. Elevators are over there and the stairs are just to the left.”
He nodded his thanks and ran down the stairs.
When he reached the Waterloo Deck, he found it empty.
And he cursed himself for not having Clara’s cabin number. He stood in the hallway and shouted her name at the top of his lungs.
As doors cracked open around him, he felt as if he’d entered a bad version of A Streetcar Named Desire.
Except that those who peeped out looked thoroughly frightened.