“Gone?”
“He’s sick! Okay? Sick! We’ve all gone to work. Mutter. My brother. Me.”
Max stops but doesn’t turn this time. Neither does he apologize. He gives Werner all the privacy he needs to compose his face and check the tears that are threatening to take his voice hostage. “Well, there you have it. You’ve already earned some respect, my young friend. From me.”
There is a long pause as Werner pulls himself together. Then he asks, “How much farther?”
“There. On the left.” Max points to an access walkway that leads to a hatch in the side of the airship. A small rectangle is barely discernible against the exterior skin. “I hope you’re not afraid of heights.”
THE AMERICAN
He squats in front of the cage, face twisted into a scowl. The dog has been left to sit in its own mess. Less than twelve hours since he was here with Joseph Sp?h, and the mutt has still not been fed or walked. It is pressed into one corner, tail wrapped around its hind legs to avoid lying in the puddle of concentrated urine. Ulla is stretched out in her crate opposite, curious but content, her large dark eyes alert and her chin resting on her paws. The other dog, however, is quivering with pent-up energy. It’s some odd mix of greyhound and Labrador and doesn’t seem to know what to do with its body in such a small space.
The American sets his palm against the latch and the mutt rushes forward to sniff him. It is overeager. Spastic. Desperate for affection and exercise. Its small black nose is dry and rough against his palm. The dog is hungry and dirty and confused. The sight makes the American angry, and a small bead of heat gathers at the center of his chest.
“What’s your name, mongrel?” he asks aloud.
If it was capable of answering, he is certain it would. The dog leans into his hand with such enthusiasm he’s afraid it might bend the latch. There is no collar and no paperwork attached to the crate by which to identify it, and a cursory glance at its underbelly reveals no immediately distinguishing signs of gender. Only wet, matted clumps of hair. Given the mess, he isn’t inclined to investigate further.
“Shit,” he says, “now I have to kill two people on this damned ship.”
The American unlatches the crate, then steps aside quickly as the dog bolts out. It rushes around his legs in frantic circles, tail lashing and tongue hanging out. “Thirsty? You poor bastard. I have nothing for you.”
He hasn’t come for the dog. And it’s a distraction now that he’s here. But he can’t very well ignore it. For one thing the crate is positioned right in front of the steamer trunk he has come to search. For another, he isn’t inclined to admit that the dog evokes his pity. That emotion is a weakness. One he cannot afford.
“Sit,” he says, and it does.
“Stay.” Again, it obeys, its tail whipping the floor with a single-minded desperation to please.
He slides the crate out of the way and stands, hands on his hips, as he inspects the stacked pile of steamer trunks. He can see his own, halfway down the right-hand stack, toward the bottom. It’s rather battered and old and certainly not the nicest of the lot. Then again, he doesn’t usually travel via luxury liners of any sort. He is far more at home in wet trenches, dark bars, and back alleys.
He doesn’t have much time. And the trunk he wants is a row back, halfway down the pile. He can see the iconic logo embossed on its leather exterior. It’s a bit scuffed now, after so much travel, but that only increases the charm. A woman who can afford such a trunk can also afford to travel. The trunk is holding together nicely, as is its owner. Expensive things always do. Margaret Mather is not the sort of woman who would settle for anything less than Louis Vuitton. To her credit, however, she has not indulged in excess. She has brought only the one trunk. Women in her position often bring ten.