Dead in the Water Read Online Free PDF Page A

over pieces of chain and boxes and joined Diaz. They began to talk, Matt gesticulating wildly.
    Sighing, John looked down at the glossy brochure in his hands. An elderly couple in nautical attire touched champagne glasses as they leaned against a pristine white railing. A Hawaiian sea spread behind them. He looked up at reality: a sailor in filthy dungarees hung over the side, which was spotted with mint-green paint, Rust-Oleum, and rust proper, a Mountain Dew in his fist, and hocked a loogie. Another sailor joined him, pulled out a cigarette, flicked the match into the filthy waters of Long Beach.
    John cocked his head. The superstructure, all seven uncertain stories of it, loomed above him. More mint, more rust, splattered with guano. Radar and masts bristled from it at all angles, so that it looked like an upside-down centipede.
    Another sailor loped past him, calling to the other two. He sported a spectacular handlebar mustache.
    “You seen Chiefy? We gotta check the starboard bilge pump.”
    Chiefy. Bilge. Would they talk like that on the
Island Princess
? John doubted it. Heck, if it was just him, he’d probablystay on the
Morris
if only for the sake of adventure. But he had the Mattman to think of.
    As if on cue, Matty whirled around and waved at him. The pale little face was glowing. Christ, he was all mouth and eyes these days. John had hoped he’d fatten up in remission. He ate a lot; damn, he was a bottomless pit. But somehow, his metabolism …
    The cancer …
    John waved back. Smiled brightly as tears sprang to his eyes. How, in all the unfair unfairnesses of life, had his son contracted the very disease for which John was paid inordinate amounts of money to discover a cure? His psychologist had tried to make him understand it was just a rotten coincidence, but John still had the hand-washing compulsion; still worried about touching his boy, breathing on him. Somewhere, in the back of his mind (to be honest, not so far back at all), he thought he’d infected Matty by something he’d brought home from the lab.
    Deeper back, he thought he was being punished, through his son, for giving up his practice with AIDS patients and moving into pure research.
    Couldn’t take it anymore.
    Dear God, couldn’t take this, either. He was terrified that in these five short days, somehow Matty would sicken and die. Waves of guilt washed over him at the thought of taking him away from the safe harbor of the hospital.
You’ve got to let him live while he’s alive
, Dr. Eling had told him, over and over and over.
If you spend every moment afraid that he’s going to die, he may as well be dead
. Harsh words, but very true. He had counseled the families and lovers of his former patients with a litany very like it.
    He watched the boy jogging along, hopping over an open can of something, skirting a jumble of large, crumbling chain.
    “Everything all right, Dr. Fielder?” Mr. Saar, the second mate, paused beside him. He was carrying a clipboard and he looked harried. Fine-trimmed red beard, sunglasses, a snappy white uniform. More brochurelike than the sailors. That was something. “Are you settled in your cabin?”
    John deliberated a moment. Should they bail out? Or washe overreacting? He needed to talk this over with Matty. After all, this trip was for him.
    Because it might be his last …
    Christ, stop it! “I … I’m fine,” John blurted out. He turned his attention to Matt and the first mate. “If he gets in the way, you let me know.”
    Saar nodded, glanced at his watch, and made a notation on his clipboard.
    “Well, we’ll resume loading in about five minutes, sir. It would be fun for him to watch for a while. They’re serving tea for the passengers in the dining room.”
    John raised an eyebrow. The
Morris
couldn’t be all that bad if it served afternoon tea, could it?
    “Thank you,” he told the second mate, who nodded and ambled toward the trio of sailors. They all rolled from one foot to the