Part 11 (2/2)

”Kill him!” Trudy ripped out.

I jumped half a mile.

Maybe Patrick had already made up his mind to go for Whittle. Or maybe he'd been about ready to put his knife away. But Trudy no sooner shouted ”Kill him!” than Patrick hurled himself at the Ripper, going for his throat with the blade. Quick as lightning, Whittle blocked Patrick's slash, s.n.a.t.c.hed out his own knife and jammed it into Patrick's belly so hard it hoisted the young chap off his feet and made his cap fly off. Patrick gave out an awful grunt. As he folded at the middle, Whittle sprang up and hung on to him so he wouldn't fall and kept the knife in him and jerked it around some, making Patrick twitch and yell.

I got up quick, thinking to join in, but Whittle fixed me with a look that stopped me cold. Besides, I was too late to help Patrick.

Michael and Trudy, they weren't stirring themselves. They only just stood there, looking sick.

So I sat back down.

”Good lad,” Whittle said. He kept his hold on Patrick and stuck him ten or twelve more times. When Patrick was all limp and saggy, Whittle eased him down to the floor. There was more blood than I'd seen since Mary's room. It was too much for Michael. He heaved and got some on Patrick's head. Trudy just stood there and shook.

Whittle, he picked up Patrick's knife off the cus.h.i.+on.

”The ignorant sod,” he said.

Then he told me to give him Patrick's belt. I crouched down beside the poor fellow. His belt was all b.l.o.o.d.y so I got my hands red, but that didn't bother me much. I felt awful sorry for him. He looked so lonesome. His eyes were open, and full of surprise and sadness.

I hadn't known him more than a couple of hours, but I'd liked him. Seemed pretty clear to me that Trudy'd got him killed. I allowed I should try not to hold it against her, though.

Well, I got the belt off him and handed it up to Whittle. He buckled it around his waist, then shoved Patrick's knife into the leather sheath.

”I'm afraid we'll simply have to do without his services,” Whittle said. ”Trudy, I'm famished.” With his own b.l.o.o.d.y knife, he pointed to the galley.

”What about Patrick?” I asked.

”He won't be joining us.”

”Shouldn't we...do something with him?”

”He'll keep.”

Well, we left him and all went into the galley. I pumped out salt water and cleaned my hands, but Whittle kept his red. Trudy prepared our meal. There wasn't room for all of us at the table, so I ate on my feet. I had a rough time downing much, for I felt plain miserable about poor Patrick. I could see him sprawled out on the floor if I looked through the doorway. And Whittle wasn't much better of a sight what with his soaked sweater and how he piled food into his mouth with b.l.o.o.d.y hands.

I forced myself to clean my plate, anyhow. Michael and Trudy did the same, though they both looked a trifle green. n.o.body said anything.

When we finished, it was clean-up time. Trudy had the easy job. She got to stay and wash the supper things. Seemed as how she rightly deserved to clean up the ugly mess in the saloon, her being the one that got Patrick killed. That job was given to me and Michael, though.

First off, Whittle told us to lug the body into the forward cabin.

”We'll heave it overboard,” he explained, ”once we're out to sea.”

I could see how it might be a risky business to drop Patrick in the harbor where we might get noticed, so I didn't complain but just grabbed his ankles and lifted. Michael took him by the wrists. We commenced to carry him along. My feet slid around on his blood, but I was careful not to step in any of Michael's mess.

We got him into the cabin and Whittle had us put him on the floor between the berths. This was our our quarters, mine and Trudy's. I sure didn't relish the notion of spending the night in it, locked up with Patrick's remainders. quarters, mine and Trudy's. I sure didn't relish the notion of spending the night in it, locked up with Patrick's remainders.

Turned out, it didn't come to that. Which should've been a relief to me, but wasn't much of one.

Michael and I, we shared a nasty time swabbing up the floor of the main saloon. Whittle manned the bucket. He took it topside now and again to dump it over the side.

When he got done, he told Michael we wouldn't sail till dawn. That way, Michael could have a good night of sleep to get set for the voyage. I was to help out on deck.

Well, it came time to turn in.

Time for me and Trudy to get locked inside that tiny cabin along with Patrick.

What Whittle did, though, he told me and Michael to sleep in the saloon. Then he took Trudy along to our usual place, closed the door after they were both in, and locked it.

They were all three shut up tight together in that one little room.

We stared at the door for quite a spell. Finally, Michael sat down at the side of a bunk and hunched over and rubbed his face.

”We'd better get some sleep,” I said.

”He's a madman,” Michael muttered. ”Completely mad. And Trudy...oh, poor Trudy.”

”I'm sure he won't kill her.”

”Some things are worse than death.”

”That may be so, but if we bide our time and keep our eyes open for the proper opportunity, we might kill Whittle and save her yet.”

He gave me a sour look. ”It's your fault we're in this fix.”

”I'm terribly sorry for that,” I told him. ”However, we're in it, so we'll simply have to carry on.”

After that, he crawled under the covers. I shut down the lamps, and got into the other bed. I was no sooner stretched out and comfortable than there came a quick, high ”No!” from Trudy. Then Whittle let out just as mean a laugh as I'd ever heard.

That was the start of it.

For just the longest time, all manner of horrid sounds came through the dark from behind that door. Thumps. Shuffles. Whimpers. Trudy pleading and Whittle chuckling. Not a peep came out of Michael. He stayed in bed, but I didn't reckon he was any more asleep than me.

I took a notion to get up and listen at the door. The thing is, I didn't want want to hear what was going on in there, so I gave up on the idea. to hear what was going on in there, so I gave up on the idea.

Well, Trudy fetched up a shriek that turned the marrow of my bones to ice. It ended with a hard clap. Next time she came out with one, the noise of it was soft and m.u.f.fled, so I knew Whittle must've thrown a gag across her mouth. He'd likely done it to keep her from being heard by folks in the boats around us, or even ash.o.r.e, she was that loud.

The gag quieted her down considerable, but didn't stop the yelps and squeals and howls. Every now and then, Whittle'd say something I couldn't quite make out. And he laughed and chuckled pretty often, like he was having himself a jolly time.

I lay there, trying hard not to wonder what he was doing with her. Couldn't get it out of my head, though, that whatever it was, it included Patrick.

By and by, I plugged my ears. That helped. Somehow, I got to sleep.

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