Дональд Уэстлейк - Forever and a Death

Richard Curtis woke early, feeling doubt. He didn’t like the feeling, had no use for doubt. In his mind, indecision was a sign of weakness, second thoughts the practice of losers. He himself was swift and decisive, and known for it, and relished the reputation. Doubt, on those rare moments when it came to him, irritated him, and he did his best to thrust it immediately away.

Hard to do, now. It was far too early to get out of bed, with the fresh sunrise a soft pink on the curtains, giving his cabin a soft rose glow, as though he slept inside a ruby. Too early to get up, but could he fall back to sleep?

He was afraid — this was the doubt, not going away — afraid he’d made a mistake last night. When asked if the diver was dead, he hadn’t hesitated for a second. Yes . Of course she was dead. It was necessary to his future plans that she be dead, so obviously she was dead.

But was it true? Would it be as true as he needed it to be? Could he rely on Zhang?

These were murky waters for Richard Curtis. He’d asked men to commit crimes for him before, mostly of a financial nature, or a lie to get around a regulation, and he’d committed such crimes himself without regret. But this was the death of a person, this was something larger, more severe, something of a different kind. Would Zhang do what he knew he was supposed to do?

In his mind, Curtis didn’t use the word ‘murder’ or even ‘killing.’ She was a severely damaged woman dragged mostly dead from the sea. Zhang was a skilled medic, but hardly a doctor, and this was, as he had taken pains to point out, hardly a hospital — not even a hospital ship. By their deficiencies of equipment and knowledge, enhanced by their neglect, couldn’t they assure she would not survive? And if the flame of life insisted on sputtering inside her, might not Zhang assist its snuffing in some way?

(Curtis was vague on that part. Some medicine? The wrong one, or given in the wrong dose? Or a pillow pressed for just a moment or two on the face? Something barely intrusive in any event, more an encouragement to nature than anything else.)

But here was the source of the doubt. Would Zhang do this thing he knew Curtis wanted? Would he too see it as merely assisting nature, encouraging the proper outcome? Or would he think it was something more significant than that, and falter?

If Curtis hadn’t said yes last night, he would have more room to maneuver now. If the girl’s condition had been left unstated, and if Zhang were to turn out not to be up to the task, then once they reached port Curtis had other people he could turn to. But what he’d done, when he’d told his guests firmly that the girl was dead, he’d made it necessary that the girl be dead, now, while they were still at sea.

And if Zhang wouldn’t do it?

Curtis closed his eyes against the pink morning light. If Zhang wouldn’t do it, and if it had to be done before Curtis left the ship, early this afternoon, then there was only one person left to turn to, and that person had never done such a thing, either. He had planned deaths, he was willing that people should die, he could order death, he could be responsible for death at a distance (and planned to be, in a large way, very soon), but could he do this other thing? Could these hands press the pillow down? Could he be present in the room when it was actually happening?

And so the doubt. And he wouldn’t be sleeping any longer this morning.

Captain Zhang was on duty on the bridge from eight every morning, but today he arrived fifteen minutes early, relieving the mate, who had stood the night watch. This morning was windier than yesterday, the Mallory rocking more noticeably in the increased swell. To the east, the pale sky was clear, a great pastel wash around the hot yellow furnace of the sun, but to the west, toward Australia, darkish clouds were piled like low foggy hills on the horizon, and would soon be coming this way. Zhang listened to the satellite weather service, listened to radio traffic generally, watched the sky and the sea, and tried not to think about what Richard Curtis wanted.

Zhang was 43, a coastal Chinese from Qinhuangdao on Liaodong Wan Bay, just across the Yellow Sea from Korea. He’d grown up loving the sea and hating politics, hating having to care about politics, and was 15 when he first shipped out, on a cargo ship from Tientsin. He retained his Chinese passport, but had not lived on the mainland for many years, and now had a wife and three daughters living in Kaohsiung, on Taiwan.

His wife, Yanling, was Taiwanese, and they had lived in Hong Kong until the changeover, when it had seemed safest for her to relocate back home. Taiwan was still, in all the ways that mattered to them, China.

The life Zhang Yung-tsien and his wife and children enjoyed was a good one, an enviable one, and it was made possible almost exclusively by Richard Curtis. Without this job, a semi-stateless Chinese with first-mate papers only — he had not yet qualified for master’s papers, and it hadn’t seemed urgent to do so — he could surely find more work, but not at these wages. He would live on a third of his present income, at best. They would lose the house in Kaohsiung, that was certain. The private school his daughters went to would be beyond his means.

Until now, there had never been any reason to worry about his position. He knew Richard Curtis appreciated his skills and discretion and had no fault to find with him. He did his job well, he was not fearful, and there had been no reason to suspect that anything would change.

But now. Now.

If only they hadn’t found the damn woman, out there in the sea! Or, finding her, if they’d only left her there.

Who wanted her? Why keep her?

What kind of thing was this to ask of a man? He wasn’t that sort, he never could be. If anything, Richard Curtis was more the cold and emotionless type that was needed for a thing like this. So why did it have to come down on the shoulders of poor Zhang Yung-tsien?

What am I going to do, he asked himself, and watched the sea, and the slowly approaching storm front from the west. I know what to do, of course, he thought, that’s simplicity itself. I inject a bubble of air into her veins, as plain as that. No one will find it because no one will suspect it, and therefore no one will look for it. She should be dead, anyway, so what difference does it make?

But Zhang knew the difference. From today on, he would be the man who had murdered a human being. That would be him, that and nothing else; could he live with that self?

But what else was there? What real choice did he have?

He didn’t know this troublesome woman; he knew Yanling and his daughters.

But could he do it? When the instant came, would he be able to do it?

“Morning, Zhang.”

Zhang started, yanked from his concentration, and turned to see Curtis standing there. Just inside the doorway, smiling a greeting at him, easy and confident. “Good morning, Mr. Curtis,” Zhang said, and blinked at the man.

Curtis looked out at the sea. “What news of our patient?”

“I... haven’t looked at her yet this morning.”

Curtis seemed mildly surprised. “You haven’t? I should think you’d want to keep tabs on her. For all you know, she took a turn for the worse during the night.”

“That’s possible, of course,” Zhang said.

“You will see her for me, won’t you?” Curtis asked him. “You will take care of things.”

Zhang found it impossible to meet those cold eyes. Looking fitfully here and there, as though some instrument, some gauge, demanded his attention, he said, “Mr. Curtis, I, of course, I have some skills, but I’m not sure I can, I’m not a doctor, of course, I think...”