Red Tide (Billy Knight Thrillers 2)

I pulled in a deep breath. It felt better than anything else I could remember.

“Ee-hah,” Nicky said softly.

More deep breaths. The flush spread outward to my toes, my fingers. I wiggled my index finger and felt like the world was starting all over again. And finally, after “When I’m 64,” with the first notes of “Mother Nature’s Child,” my right eye opened.

“G’day, mate,” said Nicky. He didn’t stop rubbing my feet.

The other eye struggled open. It was like trying to lift a Dodge van, but I finally got it open. For a minute there were two Nickys rubbing four feet. Terrifying. I felt his thumbs dig in at a different spot, on my two middle toes. Gradually the Nickys on the right and th

e left swam together and there was one Nicky with two feet in his hands.

“Nuh,” I said, trying to say “Nicky.” But “Nuh” was all I could manage.

“I know, mate, I know,” Nicky said cheerfully. “It’ll come, never fear.”

Two fingers moved now. The thumb joined them. I wiggled them at my face. Hello, Billy. Welcome back. We missed you.

I remembered the terrible burning and the bone dreams and with great effort and a lot of fear, started scanning what I could see of my body. It seemed okay. I couldn’t see all of me; my neck wouldn’t move. But what I could see looked all right.

I was alive. Everything seemed to have gotten faster and brighter while I was away, but I was back. I felt a terrible thirst and my head was pounding with a pain that made all other head aches I’d ever had seem funny, but under the circumstances I didn’t mind. Maybe I was going to be okay.

My whole hand moved now, and I rolled my head to the side. It felt wonderful, even when the head movement made my headache flare up higher. I looked at the grey steel wall. The rust specks were beautiful, the grey paint seemed lush and colorful.

I turned my head the other way. I was laid out on the floor in a small storeroom. There was a row of hanging mops and brooms, some buckets, and a shelf of cleaning supplies, all packed in with nautical efficiency. One dim light bulb hung from the middle of the ceiling, and a small porthole was rusted and bolted shut on the far end of the wall.

There was also a little more space than you might expect to find in a place where a ship’s cleaning supplies were kept. There were several spools of chain and rope hanging from spindles. and something looked familiar about the wall over there but I couldn’t say what. I frowned, trying to remember. I looked at the wall again. I had seen it before, but when? Something was different, missing, in that part over by the ringbolts fastened to the wall—

I remembered. The pictures I had taken from the sailor in the wheelhouse, of women begging. The women had been fastened to those ringbolts. Slowly, painfully, I came back to life. It was a long and awful trip. One small piece of me at a time would wake up and sluggishly, awkwardly, start to talk to the other parts. Nicky kept rubbing my feet, kept singing, and eventually rolled me over and rubbed my back, too.

I didn’t object. I didn’t have the strength yet. But as soon as I could form a thought and make my mouth work I asked him to please stop singing for the love of God.

He looked hurt, but he stopped, only mid-way through “In My Life.”

In the background, now that Nicky was quiet, the drums were overwhelming. I could hear other noises over them, sounding like a really wild fraternity party at the end of spring term.

Finally I sat up. For a few minutes I just sat there. I felt stupid and stiff, as if I had been stitched together from mismatched parts and there must be little bolts in the sides of my neck.

Nicky watched me, beaming, and hopping on one foot like a kid who has to go to the bathroom. When I finally tried to stand he was there to catch me if I needed it.

I almost did. The roaring and pounding in my ears nearly drowned out the sound of the drums. After a few lifetimes of standing and enjoying the pain I sat back down again.

I took a couple of deep breaths and managed not to throw up. Then, when the world steadied again, I looked up at Nicky.

“How?” I said. It was very tough to put thoughts together. “How you… here?”

“You put us through the wringer, you did,” Nicky said, dropping to the floor next to me. “We didn’t hear from you. Didn’t have a clue if you were out of fuel and drifting, or maybe eaten by sharks. Not a fucking clue, mate.”

“How long?”

“I waited three days, Billy. Three awful fucking days. Going right off my nut. Finally Deacon called a mate of his in Port Au Prince. Fella calls back and says Petit Fleur is in port. Has a racing boat in tow. So now we know he’s got you, too.

“I caught the first plane. Spent a day nosing around, buying a few things.”

“What?”

He chuckled. “Things, Billy. Things I couldn’t get through customs, or couldn’t get in the States. Some special medicines, like what I fed you. Some other stuff.” He leaned close and whispered, “Guns, Billy. World’s greatest gun market out there. I’ve got three of ’em stashed on this ship. Good ones. If we can get out of this room we’ll be all right yet.”

I grunted. The thought I wanted to tell him was too long and hard to put into words, but there was a heavy accent on how stupid it had been to buy guns in a place like Port Au Prince. It wasn’t much brighter to think that having one in his hand was going to make everything all right.