I'LL BE RIGHT HERE
Chapter Thirty Six
"I stand up for sense and justice."
(From: 'Sleepy Hollow'.)
-x0x-
Now…
Gorman hadn't lied about the tender. The little boat had definitely gone. But who was on it and where were they heading? Lassiter stared at the empty space where it would normally be secured, and frowned so hard that he almost gave himself a headache. The atmosphere on board the ship was tense and heavy with half-truths – the worst kind of lie to unravel. And Gorman was a liar. Of that, the detective had no doubt.
Nearby, Dunlap was on her radio, ordering one of the distant support vessels to break off from the group and embark upon a search. The other three boats were already heading towards the Copernicus. Lassiter could see them from his lofty position here at the stern; little white trails behind little red blobs that meant more guns and bodies were coming to join them. Time to gather the troops, he thought with relief. Time for action. This softly-softly approach had been his own idea (much to everyone's surprise, which he found rather amusing), and it suited the mission at hand, but that didn't mean he had to like it. Through the neon coat, he felt the reassuring bulge of his sidearm, sitting right next to his badge for easier access – and comfort, of course. Life jackets and shoulder holsters were not designed to be compatible (an oversight he would be taking up with the US Coastguard in the very near future). And he certainly didn't want to be struggling to free his weapon when a quick draw meant the difference between life and death.
"How long ago did they leave?" said O'Hara to Gorman. Lassiter couldn't decide if his partner was clinging to the hope that Spencer was still on the trip, or wishing she was part of the team chasing after the missing tender and its passengers. Yet again, he found himself wondering just what it was about Spencer that caused his friends to act in such a devoted manner. (Surely it wasn't his aftershave, or that thick head of hair, as the man liked to claim.) Even he, Carlton Lassiter, stoic and sensible, was beginning to feel the pull - as though Spencer was some kind of black hole, sucking in everyone around him.
Gazing down at the ocean was making Lassiter dizzy – or was it the introspection? He backed away from the rail, taking a couple of deep breaths to clear his head. There were bad guys on board and it was time to flush them out. He needed to be at the top of his game. As he slipped his hand beneath his coat and rested it lightly on his holster, he waited for the first mate to respond.
Hold on, though… What if Gorman had lied about that too?
"And how can we be sure you're not one of Meek's flunkeys, trying to throw us off the scent?" he demanded, earning a scowl from O'Hara. Fair enough – he had trampled all over her own line of questioning without so much as a by-your-leave. Even so, the regret he felt was fleeting. They were on the same side, after all, and this was a race to get results. Observing the niceties of polite behaviour was a luxury he couldn't afford when lives were at stake. And so they were, he realised, taken aback by the sudden and obvious thought that Shawn could actually die, even now, on the edge of rescue.
Not on my watch. O'Hara… O'Hara would never forgive herself. And Spencer would come back and haunt the bullpen, like some aggravating poltergeist. Popcorn and paperclips everywhere.
Then there was Henry…
Lassiter shuddered.
Meanwhile, Gorman was looking uncomfortable. "I'm not sure how I can help you with that, ma'am," she protested. "I'm me. What else can I tell you?"
"Well now, let's see. I'm a big fan of record-keeping," Dunlap suggested, making Lassiter jump. When had she joined the conversation? "It's a blessing and a curse – but mostly a blessing for me. Which goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway." There was an evil gleam in her eye. "Why not give me a thrill, Ms. Gorman? Let's take a look at the log, shall we? If you're the first mate, your name is bound to be in there."
"I… ah…"
Gorman's self-assurance was crumbling right in front of their eyes. With a slick move that he had been rehearsing over and over in his imagination, Lassiter whipped out his gun. "Precisely," he growled. "Did you know that lies have a very particular odour?" He tapped his nose. "And I'm a bloodhound for the truth…" Sneaking a glance at Dunlap, he hoped to see admiration on her face. Instead, her mouth was twitching in amusement. Darn. I went too far, he realised, with an inward sigh.
"Down, boy," said the smirking commander. Behind her, Manners was trying not to giggle. Her stone-faced colleague seemed less than amused, but that didn't mean he wasn't laughing on the inside.
O'Hara glared at Dunlap, clearly preparing to stick up for her partner. Lassiter shook his head, advising her to fall back and let him take it on the chin. Their position on this team was already so precarious. What did a little embarrassment signify, in the grand scheme of things? Spencer embarrassed him all the time, and his skin was much thicker these days. For which, I suppose, I ought to be grateful.
With a shrug that showed how little it really cost her, Gorman gave up the ruse. Her features shifted and her true personality was revealed. The change was hardly encouraging. This new Ellen Gorman was cooler than the last one, and not in a good way.
"Meek is long gone with your little friend. He is your friend, isn't he? I can tell. Shawn Spencer, psychic detective. Ha! Psychic pain in the... really?" she continued, as Lassiter raised his gun again. "Are you going to shoot an unarmed woman? Shame on you, Detective."
"You don't know what I'm capable of," he growled. "Start talking. The truth this time."
Gorman folded her arms. "How about we play a little game? One truth, one lie. Let's see how good your bloodhound senses really are."
"We don't have time for this," O'Hara hissed.
Lassiter shook his head. "I can do it."
"Or we could stick her in the nearest available storage locker and get on with our search. Just a thought," Dunlap commented blithely.
"I like what she said," his partner agreed.
"O'Hara," he frowned, "this ship is enormous. We need information. I told you – I can do this."
Gorman gave a tiny smile of satisfaction. "And I like a man who isn't afraid of a challenge. Very well. Fact one. There's a colleague of mine on the deck right above us, ready to fire when I give him the nod. Fact two. Shawn Spencer is already dead. One truth, one lie. Take your pick."
The gasp from O'Hara was audible. Lassiter knew what he would see if he turned to look at her. White face, wide eyes, determined jaw. But he couldn't be distracted now. Instead, he focused all of his attention on Gorman's broad features and her cold expression. Using a technique he had perfected during his golden run three years ago (nine cases in a row – still one of his proudest achievements) he held the woman's gaze and waited. Two minutes… three… and sure enough, there was a twitch, and there was a change in her breathing, from calm to shallow. Her hand rose up to fiddle with her collar… and he knew.
"The game is the lie," he said evenly. "There isn't a word of truth in it. No lone gunman up above us. And Spencer is still alive – probably kicking as well, knowing him."
Gorman's look of bitter disappointment was enough to validate his claim. In spite of the circumstances, Lassiter felt deeply satisfied. Not for long, of course. How could he, with Dunlap on hand to bring him down a peg or two?
"Well, that taught us exactly nothing," she grumbled. "Storage locker it is, then."
"But we did learn something. We know that Shawn's alive." O'Hara's eagerness was worrying, and made Lassiter doubt his conclusion for one nasty moment.
That was when they heard it. A desperate scream in the distance, and a faint splash. It had to be Spencer, the king of unfortunate timing. Alive, then – but for how long? "Don't let Gorman out of your sight," he told Manners and Stone Face, as he, O'Hara and Dunlap all began to run full tilt along the deck, armed and ready for anyone who dared to get in their way. Dammit, Spencer, thought Lassiter, squinting ahead through the glare of the early morning sun. You couldn't wait five minutes. There was still no doubt in his mind that the scream belonged to Shawn. After all, he had heard it before, many times – and when he looked at O'Hara, he knew that his hunch was right. She had recognised it too.
"This is… bad," she gasped as she ran. "Really bad…"
"Could be worse." Dunlap was barely breaking a sweat. Her running style was elegant in its efficiency. "The patrol boat is down below. My guys'll grab him. They know the drill. Correction - they've done the drill, many times over."
"Really?" O'Hara cried – and, for the look on his partner's face alone, Lassiter could have kissed the commander right there on the spot.
"Stands to reason." They staggered to a halt near an open cabin door. "Here, I think, judging by how the scream carried. Besides, we're almost at the prow. Can't go much further. I'll check with the crew down below." And Dunlap lifted the radio to her lips.
The door was bothering Lassiter. "Perhaps Meek or one of the others was hiding in here with a hostage. And – let's face it – we all know how irritating Spencer can be when he wants to."
"You're saying this was his fault?" O'Hara leaned over the rail, peering down at the water. "Shawn!" she yelled, but the wind snatched his name away. "I can't see him… Carlton. Please come and look."
"Don't jump in," he warned her grimly, but instead of joining her at the rail, he inched towards the open door, gun raised and caution to the forefront. I think there's someone inside, he mouthed to Dunlap. Was this it? Were they finally about to come face to face with Edgar Meek, the scumbag who had caused them so much trouble? Lassiter relished the confrontation.
"SBPD," he announced. "And the coastguard. Come out with your hands up – or we're coming in."