Anchor In The Storm Part 41

The target pulsed in and out of vision as the destroyer rose and fell. Two or three giant pieces of wreckage, but no oil on the surface, no men or small craft in the sea. It appeared to be an older wreck. So where did the distress call come from?

One piece of the wreckage drew his eye, smooth and cylindrical, rather than jagged and tilted.

Arch's heart thudded to the floor of his stomach. "Sir! A conning tower! Surfaced U-boat bearing zero-one-five."

His voice was overpowered by shouts from starboard, a call for left full rudder, orders called out in the pilothouse.

The destroyer veered to port. On the main deck, sailors leaned over the lifeline, pointing, shouting, "Torpedo!"

Arch braced for impact, gripping the railing in one hand and the binoculars in the other.

A phosph.o.r.escent streak glanced by, stern to bow. It came from the south, not the east.

A second U-boat.

They'd fallen into a trap.

Boston Another prescription for terpin hydrate with codeine cough syrup? Lillian glanced at the clock-8:46. She had to fill it, so she forced a smile. "That'll be about fifteen minutes."

"I'll wait." The middle-aged gentleman turned and covered a cough.

Mr. Dixon hadn't left yet. He was still poking around in the stockroom and writing on his clipboard. He'd stay until nine, and then she'd have to call from home. What if he stayed after she left and destroyed the evidence? In fact, that would be smart.

Lillian pulled out the graduated cylinder she'd just washed and set up weights on the scale.

"Finally done for the night." Mr. Dixon came out of the stockroom with a paper sack and his clipboard. "I'll send Miss Felton home. You can ring up the final purchases."

"All right." Her sudden relief lent a nice note of cheer to her voice. "Have a good night."

In jail.

Without his presence making her nervous, Lillian compounded the cough syrup quickly. Thank goodness the patient didn't have any questions, and she sent him on his way.

Five minutes until she could close the store. She grabbed the phone and dialed the police department. "May I speak to Detective Malloy?"

"He's gone home for the day. I'll have him call you in the morning. Name and number?"

"No." Lillian pressed her hand to her forehead. "That won't do. This is Lillian Avery at Dixon's Drugs on Main Street by City Square. I just found out my boss, Cyrus Dixon, is running a ma.s.sive ring that sells drugs to sailors. His nephew, Charles Leary, is the source at the Navy Yard. The ring is connected to the murder of the sailor this morning. All the prescriptions, the evidence-it's here at the drugstore. I need someone to come here immediately."

"All right then . . ." The officer sounded confused.

Lillian winced. Her story must sound bizarre. "Please, sir. I think Mr. Dixon might leave town tonight. Or he might come back after the store closes and destroy the evidence. It can't wait until morning."

The policeman sighed. "Listen, lady. All our officers are busy. I'll send someone as soon as possible, but it could be a few hours."

She peered down the aisle. "The store closes at nine, and I'm leaving. I'll take the prescriptions with me to protect the evidence."

"No, ma'am. Don't do that. Go home, but do not disturb the evidence. Why don't I tell the officer to meet you at home?"

That would have to do. Lillian gave them her address and hung up.

Two minutes before nine. Close enough. The prescription area was clean and neat, prepared as if someone would actually work there in the morning.

In the stockroom, she took off her white coat and grabbed her purse, with her evidence notebook tucked inside. Then she locked the stockroom, the door to the prescription area, and the side exit in the main store area.

Down the aisle she strolled, glancing down each aisle, but no customers remained. Miss Felton would have locked the front cash register, so Lillian only had to turn off the lights and lock the front door behind her.

One last customer stood in the front display area, a shorter gentleman in work clothes, inspecting an item on the shelf.

Keys in hand, Lillian checked her watch. Nine o'clock sharp. Thank goodness. "Excuse me, sir. Would you like to make a purchase?"

He didn't face her. "Why? Is it closing time?"

"Yes, sir."

"And I'm the last customer in the store."

"That's right, but-"

He spun around and waved out the window.

Lillian's breath turned to icy shards in her lungs. The man-Arnold Smith, one of the phen.o.barbital patients.

Another man jogged across the darkened street.

Lord, no! Help me. She lunged for the door.

The man in the street got there first. Tall, lanky-Hank!

Deep inside, a scream welled up.

A hand slapped over her mouth. The shorter man yanked her to his chest and jabbed something hard into her rib cage. "Shut your trap, sister. That's a gun."

Oh no, oh no, oh no. Lillian's breath huffed over the man's gloved fingers, and she groped the air in front of her.

Hank shut the door behind him and s.n.a.t.c.hed the keys from Lillian's hand. "Get her to the back. I'll hit the lights."

"Move it, sister." Her captor shoved her forward, his hand and the gun firmly in place.

Help me, Lord. Help me, help me, help me. Lillian stumbled toward the back of the store. She had no choice. If she broke away or collapsed to the floor, he'd shoot her.

"Got the clipboard, Hank?"

"Sure, I got it."

"Dixon said follow it to a T, or Chuck kills us slow and painful."

"Relax, Shorty. You worry too much."

Hank unlocked the door to the prescription area, and Shorty pushed Lillian inside.

"Don't turn on the lights," Shorty said. "Flashlight by the door to the stockroom, Dixon said."

"What do you say, girlie? Do we need to gag you, or will you keep your mouth shut?" Hank shone the flashlight in Lillian's face.

She slammed her eyes shut and tried to nod in Shorty's tight grip.

"See, if we don't gag you, and you scream, we'll take our time killing you, have our fun. Promise not to scream?"

Lillian nodded.

Shorty eased his hand away from her mouth.

She wiped her tingling lips. "Why do I have a hunch you're going to kill me anyway?"

Hank laughed and pressed his index finger to her forehead like a gun. "Sure, but you be a good girl and be quiet, and it won't hurt a bit. You scream, and it'll hurt a lot."

"Come on, Hank. Hurry up. We've got a lot to do to make this look like a robbery gone bad. Get the twine and tie her up."

"Who made you boss?" Hank set the flashlight on the counter, pulled a coil of twine out of a sack, and wrestled Lillian's arms behind her back while Shorty pressed the gun barrel to her ribs.

Lillian's throat swelled. She was all alone. Her boss had betrayed her and ordered these men to murder her. Her family loved her, but they weren't here. Her roommates didn't know she was in trouble. The police wouldn't come for hours, and they'd go to her apartment instead of the store. And Arch . . . she'd driven him away forever.

The rough twine bit into her wrists.

"Now her feet. Sit." Shorty shoved her down.

Her knees struck the wooden floor, and she bit back a cry.

"Hey now." Hank shone the beam at her legs. "We don't have to tie up her feet. We just have to take one off."

"For once, you're thinking. She can't run away on one leg."

The men laughed together. They pushed Lillian onto her backside, yanked her feet in front of her, hiked up her skirt, and untied the laces of the leather harness around her thigh.

Lillian jerked her head to the side, her chest burning with fury and humiliation.

Shorty tugged off her prosthesis and groaned in disgust. "That's the ugliest thing I've ever seen."

"When'd you last look in the mirror?" Hank laughed at his own joke. "But hey, the rest of her ain't bad. What do you say me and you have a little fun before we knock her off?"

Lillian's stomach convulsed, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

"What's wrong with you? She's a freak. Even you can do better than that."

With a loud grumble, Hank shoved the prosthesis aside. "Fine."

Lillian curled up against the wall by the door to the stockroom. Just like the night with Gordon by the river. The night he'd conned her into taking off her prosthesis. The night he'd tried to have his way with her. The night the college boys shamed him into leaving her alone.

They'd called her a freak. They'd told Gordon he could do better.

She pressed her cheek to the wall. Without her prosthesis, she was weak and incapacitated. Without her prosthesis, her stump was cold and ugly.

Just like her heart.

And it was all over.

41.

South of Long Island The torpedo sliced by the bow of the Ettinger. No contact.

But no time for Arch to catch his breath. He dashed into the pilothouse. "Surfaced U-boat, bearing zero-one-five."

"Two of them." The captain addressed the talker. "Forward guns train on forward target. Aft guns train on starboard target. Commence firing when ready. Fire at will."

Arch gripped the threshold, his breath spotty and ragged. Not again. Not again.

All around, men hustled, thinking well, acting well. And Arch stood frozen. Lord, get me through.

If he couldn't overcome his combat neurosis, the s.h.i.+p would be better off with him confined to quarters, where at least he'd be out of the way.

He had a job to do. A job. What was it?

Junior officer of the watch. The log. He had to keep the log.

Arch shoved his feet forward, dried his hands on his trousers, and made notations for contact with the enemy, his handwriting barely legible.

"First target approaching from behind the wreckage."

Arch glanced through a rain-smeared porthole. The searchlight illuminated the sleek hull of the submarine. Small figures scrambled out of the conning tower. "Sir, they're manning the deck gun."

"Number one, number two, commence firing on the double."

The talker relayed the message to the gun captains, and more orders flew-to the helm, to the damage control parties, to the radio room to send an "SSS" message.

A loud rumble, and the aft guns fired, rocking the s.h.i.+p. Toward the bow, the forward guns rotated, and the barrels rose. Circular orange flashes, a blast of noise, and both guns fired.

Two sh.e.l.ls splashed into the water beyond the U-boat. Arch winced. They'd missed. In the gun director above the pilothouse, gunnery officer Miles Gannett would be adjusting fire.

And still the figures remained on the U-boat's deck, hunched around the gun. Why wasn't that first sub firing torpedoes? Maybe she was at the end of her tour and had used them all. The two U-boats had probably hoped to lure an unsuspecting tanker with the fake distress call-not a destroyer.