The Wheel of Darkness

The staff captain’s low, competent voice and her soothing words had the intended effect. Evered was still flushed and breathing heavily, but after a moment he swallowed and nodded. “That’s what I’ve been asking from the begi

After Evered had left, the three stood in silence. Finally, the security chief fetched a deep sigh and turned to Mason. “Well, Captain?”

The staff captain was staring thoughtfully at the empty doorway. “Is there any way we could get a psychiatric background report on Mrs. Evered?”

A silence. “You don’t think—?” Kemper asked.

“It’s always a possibility.”

“Legally we’d have to go through her husband,” Kemper said. “That’s a step I’d be most reluctant to take until we’re really sure she’s . . . no longer on the ship. Son of abitch . We’ve already got a problem with crew morale over that crazy housekeeper—I hope to God we find her.”

Mason nodded. “Me too. Mr. Kemper, please organize a level-two search.” She glanced at LeSeur. “Gordon, I’d like you to work with Mr. Kemper personally.”

“Certainly, sir,” LeSeur said. Inwardly, he cringed. A level-two search meant every public space, all the crews’ quarters, and the entire belowdecks section of the ship—everything, in fact, but the staterooms. Even with the entire security staff mobilized, it would take a full day, at least. And there were some spaces deep in the bowels of the ship that simply couldn’t be searched successfully.

“I’m sorry, Gordon,” she said, reading the look on his face. “But it’s a step we have to take. Standing orders.”

Standing orders, he thought a little morosely. And that’s all it was, really: an exercise in formality. Passenger cabins could only be examined in a level-three search, and Commodore Cutter would have to authorize that personally. No such search had ever been conducted on a ship LeSeur had worked on, not even when there had been a jumper. And that’s what LeSeur privately figured Mrs. Evered was: a jumper. Suicide at sea was more common than the passengers ever realized. Especially on high-profile maiden voyages, where some people wanted to go out in style. That was a huge irony, because it was the way of the cruise industry to sweep them under the rug and do everything to keep the news from the rest of the passengers. Instead of going out in style, Mrs. Evered might simply be five hundred miles behind them and a thousand fathoms deep—

LeSeur’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock. He turned to see a security officer standing in the doorway. “Mr. Kemper, sir?”

“Yes?” Kemper asked.

“Sir,” the man said nervously, “two things.” He shifted, waiting.

“Well?” Kemper snapped. “Can’t you see I’m in a meeting?”

“The maid who went crazy—she, ah, just killed herself.”

“How?”

“Managed to get free of her restraints and . . .” He faltered.

“And what?”

“Pried a sharp piece of wood free from her bedframe and jammed it into her eye socket. Went up into her brain.”

There was a short silence as this bit of information was digested. Kemper shook his head.

“Mr. Kemper,” LeSeur said, “I think you might want to have a word with the passenger in the last suite she cleaned before she went off the deep end. There might have been some kind of unpleasant encounter, an accident, perhaps . . . I was on a cruise ship once where a passenger brutally raped the maid that came in to clean.”

“I’ll do that, sir.”

“Be circumspect.”

“Of course.”

There was a silence. Then Kemper turned back to the nervous security officer. “You mentioned a second thing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well? What is it?” Kemper asked brusquely.

“There’s something you should see.” “What?”

The man hesitated. “I’d rather you saw it directly, sir. It might pertain to the missing passenger.”

“Where is it?” Mason interrupted, her voice sharp.

“The weather deck aft of the St. James’s shopping arcade.”

“Lead the way,” said Mason crisply. “We’ll all go together.”

Kemper headed toward the door, then glanced back at LeSeur. “You coming, sir?”

“Yes.” LeSeur said reluctantly, with a sinking feeling.

The deck was raw and damp. There were no passengers—the few hardy souls who ventured out into the open air usually sought out the unbroken circuit of the promenade on Deck 7, directly above. There was a buffeting wind that tore froth from the ship’s bow far into the air, and within moments LeSeur’s jacket was soaked.

The security officer led the way to the railing. “It’s down there,” he said, pointing over the side.

LeSeur joined Kemper and Carol Mason at the rail. He glanced over, staring down at the water seven decks below. It boiled angrily along the smooth flank of the ship.

“What are we looking at?” Kemper asked.

“There, sir. I just noticed it as I did a visual inspection of the hull. Do you see the damage to the brightwork below the toe-rail there, just to the left of that scupper?”

Keeping a tight grip on the railing, LeSeur leaned farther over, peering carefully. Then he saw it: a six-inch scrape along the teak brightwork that hid the deck joint.

“Sir, if that damage was there before we sailed yesterday, I would have noticed it. I’m sure of it.”

“He’s right,” the staff captain said. “This vessel is much too new to be dinged up like that.” She peered more closely. “And if I’m not mistaken, there’s something clinging to that splintered section, almost the same color as the wood.”

LeSeur squinted. The starboard hull was deep in afternoon shadow, but he thought he saw it, too.

Mason turned to the security officer. “See if you can retrieve it.”

The man nodded, then lay flat on the deck. While LeSeur and Kemper held his feet, the man ducked his head under the railing, then reached over the edge with his hand. He moved his arm around, grunting. Just when LeSeur thought he couldn’t get any wetter, the man cried out. “Got it!” he said.

They pulled him back from the edge of the deck and he got to his feet, something balled protectively in his hand. As the three crowded around, he slowly uncurled his fist.

Lying in his palm was a small cluster of fine threads, matted and soaked with spray. LeSeur heard Mason catch her breath. As she did so, he realized that the threads were all co

“Mr. Kemper,” Mason said in a low, even voice. “Do you have that photograph of the missing woman?”

He removed a small portfolio from his pocket, opened it, drew out the photo, and handed it to the staff captain. She held it up, looked at it carefully, then looked back at the hair in the officer’s cupped palm.