Marcia Talley - Dark Passage

Worried lines creased her brow. ‘Is Julie…?’

‘Julie’s fine. Now that her attacker has been identified, I think she’ll be able to sleep a little easier.’

‘I heard,’ Jeannie said.

‘Is he…?’ I gestured toward the door that led into the examination room.

‘I could get in trouble,’ she said, reading my mind.

‘Sorry,’ I managed, choking up. ‘It’s just that David Warren and I have grown pretty close. If he’s still out there somewhere…’ I took a deep, steadying breath. ‘I really need to know.’

Jeannie rose without speaking and crossed to the door, gesturing for me to follow her. She turned the knob and slowly pushed it open.

Inside the examination room, on a gurney and covered by a lightweight blanket, lay David Warren. He appeared to be sleeping. I grabbed the doorframe, weak-kneed with relief.

‘Thank God!’ I whispered.

In addition to the bandage on his forehead – courtesy of Jack Westfall – David now sported a neon-blue air splint on his right arm. But the biggest surprise was who sat on a chair next to the gurney: Elda Homer. Her hair a bit disheveled, but still dressed in her evening finery, she held David’s good left hand.

My heart flopped in my chest, and I couldn’t suppress a smile.

We backed away silently. ‘She’s been by his side for a couple of hours,’ Jeannie whispered back as she closed the door on the quiet domestic scene. ‘Like you, she just showed up. David asked her to stay.’

‘Good,’ I said, feeling slightly choked. Perhaps David had found something – or someone – to live for after all.

‘Is he going to be OK?’ I asked the nurse.

‘I can’t comment on a patient’s medical condition, you know that,’ she said kindly.

‘But would you do me a favor? When he wakes up, tell him Hannah Ives was here.’

‘I’ll do that,’ she said, touching my arm.

I couldn’t speak for a moment. ‘Well, that’s it, then,’ I eventually croaked, completely undone. I managed to hold it together until I got out into the corridor, where tears of relief began to spill from my eyes and course hotly down my cheeks.

I gave into the tears, until there were none left to cry.

‘If it’s calculated in a notebook, it ends up being geometry. If it’s written or researched, it might be history. When people are watching, it has the potential of being magic.’

Jim Steinmeyer, Hiding the Elephant ,

Da Capo, 2004, p. 329

Long before dawn, while most of the passengers slept, the Islander passed under the Francis Scott Key Bridge, veered left at Fort McHenry, and ghosted into its berth at the Port of Baltimore. As the great white ship waited for the first rays of the sun to light its stacks, its generators thrummed, contented. Islander was prepared for whatever the day would bring.

Beyond our window, the Baltimore sky burned gold with reflections from the arc lamps that lined the city’s streets, streets that glistened in the gentle rain like black coal.

Eventually, dawn crept in out of the east, defining a building, the cars in the parking lot, a highway sign. When it was bright enough that I could read the sign – Fort McHenry Tunnel Restrictions – dock workers materialized, rolling the gangplank up to the ship, where they made it fast.

Everything was ready.

‘I thought they said we would disembark at seven,’ a bulky woman complained to me in the Firebird café. She’d nearly run me down as I made the mistake of walking between her and the Belgian waffle machine. She would have been better off in the fresh fruit and Special K line, I thought sourly as I found a tray, filled four mugs with coffee from a pair of urns, then carried them back to our cabins to await the announcements I knew would be coming.

At eight o’clock, the intercom clicked, hummed. The voice of the captain filled our small cabin as he apologized for the delay and asked for our patience. ‘As you have probably heard, last night we had a tragic overboard situation. I have nothing but high praise for the passengers on deck who reacted quickly, tossing life rings to the victims and calling in the alarm. Also, kudos need to be accorded to the crew of Islander’s launch, whose prompt response resulted in the rescue of one victim who is now being treated in the medical unit for his injuries, and who is expected to make a full recovery.’

‘How about the other guy?’ I shouted at the intercom.

Ruth scowled a warning. ‘Shut up and listen, Hannah.’

‘I’ve been in communication with the United States Coast Guard this morning,’ the captain continued, ‘and I regret to report that despite heroic efforts on the part of their officers and crew, the second victim, a Phoenix Cruise Lines staff member from San Diego, California, has yet to be found. But, the search continues.’

‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ Ruth muttered.

‘Still, I hoped…’ I started to say, then the tears began again.

Ruth handed me a box of tissues, and took one herself. ‘At least they found David,’ she sniffed.

‘Yes. At least, there’s that.’

I watched the wharf from the balcony, drinking coffee by the gallon. Because the gangway was covered, and connected directly to the terminal, I never saw the F.B.I. agents arrive.

That they had was confirmed by a knock on our door. Officer Molly Fortune was there to escort us to a waiting area outside a glassed-in conference center on deck six, not far from the elegant Garuda Grill.

One by one we were called in before a panel of serious-faced F.B.I. agents. Our statements were recorded, and affidavits signed. When I came out of the room, Pia was waiting for her turn. We didn’t speak, but she gave me a subtle thumbs up as she passed me to go in.

They kept Julie Lynn the longest, but when she finally came out, Molly Fortune said we were free to go.

Is that all there is? I wondered.

Eight hours later, after a corned beef and cabbage dinner around the corner at our favorite neighborhood restaurant, Galway Bay, where all talk of cruises was put off limits, Paul and I settled in on the living room sofa to watch the news. CNN hadn’t picked up the story, but it was the lead on WBAL-TV.

How the press had received the tip-off, I’ll never know, but the reporter read the story over a video of David Warren being medevaced from the ship to Johns Hopkins, strapped to a stretcher. ‘The victim received multiple fractures, but is expected to survive.

‘The body of the second victim,’ the reporter continued, ‘was found early this morning near the town of Cape Henry on Maryland’s eastern shore. Thomas Channing, a well-known magician from San Diego, sources tell us, was sucked into the ship’s propellers and died instantly.’

I thought about how pleased Channing had been with his new illusion, the Turbine of Terror, and shuddered.

Nestled in the comfort of my husband’s arms, I told Paul the whole sorry tale, from the frantic time when Julie went missing right up to when Tom and David had both plunged into the sea.

‘What I don’t understand,’ Paul said once I’d finished, ‘is how Channing managed to access Buck Carney’s room. Carney sounds like a weirdo too, by all accounts – are you sure he wasn’t involved in some way?’

‘No, it was purely a case of mistaken identity by Julie. David didn’t manage to force it out of Channing before he fell overboard, but Channing was very clever. Buck was a cruise regular who was constantly out and about around the ship, glued to his camera, preoccupied with shipboard events. He’s also the perfect suspect – a creepy photographer with stalking tendencies would go straight to the top of anybody’s suspect list. I might have worked it out earlier if I’d asked the steward the right question.’