That ship. That godawful floating piece of hell. He had to go back there.
8
'I'm thirsty, Mommy.'
'It's the Chinese food. It always makes you thirsty. Have another drink of water.'
'I don't want water. I'm tired of water. Can't I have some juice?'
'I'm sorry, honey, but I didn't get a chance to do any shopping. The only thing to drink around here is some wine and you can't have that. I'll get you some juice in the morning. I promise.'
'Oh, okay.'
Vicky slumped in her chair and folded her arms over her chest. She wanted juice instead of water and she wanted to watch something else besides these dumb news shows. First the six o'clock news, then something called the network news, and Mr. Grossman—he wasn't her uncle; why did he want her to call him Uncle Abe?—talking, talking, talking.
Her tongue felt dry. If only she had some juice...
She remembered the orange—the one she’d saved from her playhouse this morning. That would taste so delicious now.
Without a word she got up from her chair and slipped into the bedroom she and Mommy would be sharing tonight. Her Ms. Jelliroll Carry Case was on the floor of the closet. Kneeling in the dim light of the room, she opened it and pulled out the orange. It felt so cool in her hand. Just the smell made her mouth water. This was going to taste
She went over by the screened window and dug her thumb into the thick skin until it broke through, then she began peeling. Juice squirted all over her hands as she tore a section loose and bit into it.
She pushed the rest of the section into her mouth and was tearing another free when she noticed something funny about the taste. It wasn't a bad taste, but it wasn't a good taste either. She took a bite of the second section. It tasted the same.
Suddenly she was frightened. What if the orange was rotten? Maybe that's why Jack wouldn't let her have any this morning. What if it made her sick?
Panicked, Vicky bent and shoved the rest of the orange under the bed—she'd sneak it into the garbage later when she had a chance. Then she strolled out of the room and over to the bathroom where she washed the juice off her hands and drank a Dixie Cup full of water.
She hoped she didn't get a stomachache. Mommy would be awfully mad if she found out about sneaking the orange. But more than anything Vicky prayed she didn't throw up. Throwing up was the worst thing in the world.
Vicky returned to the living room, hoping no one would see her face. She felt guilty. One look at her and Mommy would know something was wrong.
The weather lady was saying that tomorrow was going to be hot and dry and sunny again, and Mr. Grossman started talking about drought and people fighting over water.
She sat on the floor and hoped they'd let her watch something
9
The dark bow of the freighter loomed over Jack, engulfing him in its shadow as he stood on the dock. The sun sinking over New Jersey still cast plenty of light. He barely heard the traffic rushing by above and behind him. His attention was lasered on the ship before him.
His heart clattered against his ribs. He had to go in. No way around it. For an instant, he actually considered calling the police, but rejected the idea immediately. As Kolabati had said, Kusum was legally untouchable. And even if Jack managed to convince the cops that such things as rakoshi existed, all they were likely to do was get themselves killed and loose the creatures on the city. Probably get Kolabati killed too.
No, the police didn't belong here, for practical reasons and reasons of principle: This was his problem and he would solve it.
As he followed the wharf around to the starboard side of the ship, he pulled on a pair of heavy work gloves he’d bought on his walk over from Fifth Avenue. Three brand new butane cigarette lighters were scattered through his pockets. He didn't know what good they'd do but Kolabati had been emphatic about fire and iron being the only weapons against rakoshi. If he needed fire, at least he’d have some available.
Too much light to climb up the same rope he had last time—it was in plain view of the traffic on the West Side Highway. He’d have to enter by way of a stern line this time. He looked longingly at the raised gangplank. If he’d had the time he could have stopped at his apartment and picked up the variable frequency beeper he used for getting into garages with remote control door openers. He was sure the gangplank operated on a similar principle.
He found a heavy stern line and tested his tautness. He saw the name across the stern but couldn't read the lettering. The setting sun was warm against his skin. Everything seemed so normal and mundane out here. But in that ship...
He stilled the dread within and forced himself up the rope monkey style like last night. As he pulled himself over the gunwale and onto the deck at the rear of the superstructure, he realized that the darkness of last night had hidden a multitude of sins. The boat was filthy. Rust grew where paint had thinned or peeled away; everything was either nicked or dented or both. And overlaying all was a thick coat of grease, grime, soot, and salt.
The rakoshi are below, Jack reminded himself as he entered the superstructure and began his search of the cabins. They're sealed in the cargo areas. I won't run into one up here. I won't.
He kept repeating it over and over, like a litany. It allowed him to concentrate on his search instead of constantly looking over his shoulder.
He started with the bridge and worked his way downward. He found no sign of Kolabati in any of the officers' cabins. He was going through the crew's quarters on the main deck level when he heard a sound.
He stopped. A voice—a woman's voice—calling a name from somewhere inside the wall. Hope began to grow
