Randy White - Dead of Night

Lake soon figured out that after each paragraph, Applebee shifted the numerical key four more letters. After four paragraphs, though, he returned to the original pattern: 1 represented D, 2 became E.

One of the attachments was labeled: “Selecting Copepod Hybrids to Control Guinea Worms.”

I could heard the voice of my much-missed friend, Frieda Matthews, telling me that her brother and I had more in common than I realized.

An amazing little man. I regretted never meeting him.

As interesting as that was, though, I was far more concerned with what Lake had written about the paternity test.

I lingered on his last few sentences.

You could have told me, even though I probably wouldn’t have listened. Only a compulsive freak for accuracy would order this test when two great guys like you and Tomlinson are the men in question. A compulsive accuracy freak-someone like you.

I’m sure you recognized the genetic traits. I should’ve. But now we know for sure. I’m a pretty happy guy, Dad. No offense to Tomlinson

…

I had a great big grin on my face as I read it over and over.

The news from Lake was especially welcome because I’d spent Christmas in Iowa. The visit could have gone worse, but not much worse.

Three adults in a two-bedroom farmhouse, snowdrifts, wind and freezing weather outside. The first night, huddled near the fire, Dewey’s Romanian girlfriend, Bets, had made it clear that they’d renewed their relationship, and that she planned to be at the bedside when Dewey’s child was born.

“Our child,” I’d corrected her, looking to my old friend, workout partner, and former lover for reassurance.

It wasn’t offered.

Bets was in a mood to argue. I didn’t press it.

Anyone who invites emotional meltdowns is a fool. The same is true of a man or woman who bums a bridge and forever separates from the partner they once treasured.

I assumed a role: supportive friend of two old friends who were embarking on a new, exciting chapter in their lives. Each afternoon near sunset, I found relief from the tension that filled the house by walking along the Mississippi River. Frozen paths, black trees.

I was envious of the direction that water flowed beneath its mask of ice.

“You’ll always be the girl’s father,” Dewey told me before I drove away in my rental. Walda had nodded her head in agreement. I gave each woman a hug, and touched my fingers to Dewey’s belly, wondering if I would ever see any of them again.

Thinking of Christmas changed my mood.

I checked my watch: 11:51 P.M.

At midnight, I was standing on the promenade deck, in shadows near the bow, my tuxedo jacket flapping in gale winds created by a ship traveling at thirty-plus miles an hour through Caribbean darkness.

I was on the starboard side, looking west. Cuba was on the horizon, not many miles away. The last of the Bahamas, too. Cay Sal Bank. Ragged Cays. Islands adrift beneath a husk of copper moon, and six star-bright planets evenly spaced among a riot of stars.

Seven planets, not six, I decided, if I counted the ship.

I did.

Isolated lights marked isolated islands, some joined by darkness, others set apart. The woman, and her islands, came to mind. Dasha had somehow found my Internet address and sent me a note that was troubling, and suggestive. But it also contained a satisfying revelation. She’d been doing some reading. She didn’t realize it took guinea worms a year to hatch, and it had only been seven months since “someone” had contaminated their water supply.

“Applebee must have had the same idea months before. He did it first. Never piss off an autistic, I guess.”

Snakes, she added, continued to be a problem. She hinted that she wouldn’t mind a break from her own isolation.

“Snakes are always a problem,” I’d replied.

True.

A sentence fragment came to mind. Words of a respected friend.

There’s only one safe haven for guys like us. Only one home we will ever know…

The same good man, who, on a rainy jungle night, helped me craft a precept that began: “In any conflict, the boundaries of behavior are defined by those who value morality least…”

It was something to think about until I heard: “Excuse me!”

A man’s voice startled me from the shadows of the bow. A large man with an accent. He brushed by, his shoulder touching mine, even though there was plenty of room to pass. An aggressive signal.

He took a place at the railing, also too close. Checked his watch as I checked mine.

12:14 A.M.

I moved away a few feet, conceding the space. He obviously wanted me to disappear.

The man was wearing a white tux that was as well tailored as my own. His black hair was groomed back, oiled to a sheen. He wore a diver’s watch on a heavy silver bracelet, a single ring on his pinkie finger.

In a cheery, midwestern voice, I said, “Nice night, huh? Have you tried one of them rum punches? Really good.”

The man turned his head away. Didn’t bother to grunt.

I gave it a few seconds. “You waiting for somebody?”

He looked at me. Used his eyes to communicate contempt. Looked away.

I checked the promenade deck. Empty, both directions. Leaned to get a look at decks beneath, water flowing by seven stories below.

A few people visible, but it couldn’t be helped.

Moved a half step closer to him as I said, “Me, I’m waiting on a woman. Beautiful woman, wore a gold evening gown tonight. She told me to meet her here. But she’s late.”

Abu Sayyaf, the Islamic disciple who’d help plan a train bombing in Madrid, and who was now developing a plan to bomb school buses, turned slowly to face me. “A woman in gold? With very dark skin?”

I’d taken the gold coin from my pocket. Flipped it into the air, caught it. Flipped it again. “That’s right! How’d you know?”

Sayyaf could also use laughter to communicate contempt. He was laughing now. “You must be the jealous husband she mentioned. Were you spying on her? Of course, why else would you be here?” He waved his hand, dismissing me. “Tell your wife she had her chance but blew it.” Once again his eyes followed the coin as I flipped it into the air.

As if shocked, I said to him, “Wife? That’s not my wife, mister. I’d trust that woman with my life, but we’re not married-”

I flipped the coin a last time. Flipped it so that it spun high, but too far out over the water for me to reach. Sayyaf had quick hands but bad instincts. He threw both hands outboard and leaned to snag it.

I’d already dropped to one knee for maximum leverage. I locked my arms around his thighs, buried the side of my head into his short ribs, using neck muscles to turn his back to the sea. Battled briefly for hand control, as Sayyaf hyperventilated, slowed by the shock of what was happening. Remained stiff, almost resigned, as I squat-lifted his weight off the deck and vaulted him over the railing. Only then did he become animated, hands clawing at darkness to impede his fall, his body shrinking as he descended toward black water, falling at the same speed as the golden coin-a voodoo charm the lady had handed me for luck.

I stood, waited for a moment, then walked calmly to the ship’s port side, sensitive to reverse thrust of engines, or security alarms, comforted by the knowledge that a black ops helicopter was shadowing us in case I, too, had to vanish into the safety of midnight water.

Nothing.

I straightened my white tuxedo jacket, looked at my watch-12:33 A.M.-then headed downstairs toward the champagne bar to meet my much-trusted cabinmate for a drink. Ransom Gatrell, an island woman who was gorgeous in gold, said that she’d be expecting me…