It all flooded back into David now, the unbearable guilt for what he had done, and he went berserk. He picked up the man sitting across from him and smashed his fist into his face, pounding at him, screaming meaningless, senseless words, attacking him for Beth and for Jill, and for his own shame. Clifton Lawrence tried to defend himself, but there was no way that he could stop the blows. A fist smashed into his nose and he felt something break. A fist cannoned into his mouth and the blood started running like a river. He stood there helplessly, waiting for the next blow to strike him. But suddenly there were no more. There was no sound in the room but his tortured, stertorous breathing and the sensuous sounds coming from the screen.
Clifton pulled out a handkerchief to try to stem the bleeding. He stumbed out of the theater, covering his nose and mouth with his handkerchief, and started toward Jill’s cabin. As he passed the dining room, the swinging kitchen door opened for a moment, and he walked into the kitchen, past the bustling chefs and stewards and waiters. He found an ice-making machine and scooped up chunks of ice into a cloth and put them over his nose and mouth. He started out. In front of him was an enormous wedding cake with little spun-sugar figures of the bride and groom on top. Clifton reached out and twisted off the bride’s head and crushed it in his fingers.
Then he went to find Jill.
The ship was under way. Jill could feel the movement as the fifty-five-thousand-ton liner began to slide away from the pier. She wondered what was keeping David.
As Jill was finishing her unpacking, there was a knock at the cabin door. Jill hurried over to the door and called out, “David!” She opened it, her arms outstretched.
Clifton Lawrence stood there, his face battered and bloody. Jill dropped her arms and stared at him. “What are you doing here? What—what happened to you?”
“I just dropped by to say hello, Jill.”
She could hardly understand him.
“And to give you a message from David.”
Jill looked at him, uncomprehendingly. “From David?”
Clifton walked into the cabin.
He was making Jill nervous. “Where is David?”
Clifton turned to her and said, “Remember what movies used to be like in the old days? There were the good guys in the white hats and the bad guys in the black hats and in the end, you always knew the bad guys were going to get their just deserts. I grew up on those movies, Jill. I grew up believing that life was really like that, that the boys in the white hats always won.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s nice to know that once in a while life works out like those old movies.” He smiled at her through battered, bleeding lips and said, “David’s gone. For good.”
She stared at him in disbelief.
And at that moment, they both felt the motion of the ship come to a stop. Clifton walked out to the veranda and looked down over the side of the ship. “Come here.”
Jill hesitated a moment, then followed him, filled with some nameless, growing dread. She peered over the railing. Far below on the water, she could see David getting on the pilot tug, leaving the Bretagne. She clutched the railing for support. “Why?” she demanded unbelievingly. “What happened?”
Clifton Lawrence turned to her and said, “I ran your picture for him.”
And she instantly knew what he meant and she moaned, “Oh, my God. No! Please, no! You’ve killed me!”
“Then we’re even.”
“Get out!” she screamed. “Get out of here!” She flung herself at him and her nails caught his cheeks and ripped deep gashes down the side. Clifton swung and hit her hard across the face. She fell to her knees, clutching her head in agony.
Clifton stood looking at her for a long moment. This was how he wanted to remember her. “So long, Josephine Czinski,” he said.
Clifton left Jill’s cabin and walked up to the boat deck, keeping the lower half of his face covered with the handkerchief. He walked slowly, studying the faces of the passengers, looking for a fresh face, an unusual type. You never knew when you might stumble across some new talent. He felt ready to go back to work again.
Who could tell? Maybe he would get lucky and discover another Toby Temple.
Shortly after Clifton left, Claude Dessard walked up to Jill’s cabin and knocked at the door. There was no response, but the chief purser could hear sounds inside the room. He waited a moment, then raised his voice and said, “Mrs. Temple, this is Claude Dessard, the chief purser. I was wondering if I might be of service?”
There was no answer. By now Dessard’s internal warning system was screaming. His instincts told him that there was something terribly wrong, and he had a premonition that it centered, somehow, around this woman. A series of wild, outrageous thoughts danced through his brain. She had been murdered or kidnaped or—He tried the handle of the door. It was unlocked. Slowly, Dessard pushed the door open. Jill Temple was standing at the far end of the cabin, looking out the porthole, her back to him. Dessard opened his mouth to speak, but something in the frozen rigidity of the figure stopped him. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, debating whether to quietly withdraw, when suddenly the cabin was filled with an unearthly, keening sound, like an animal in pain. Helpless before such a deep private agony, Dessard withdrew, carefully closing the door behind him.
Dessard stood outside the cabin a moment, listening to the wordless cry from within, then, deeply disturbed, turned and headed for the theater on the main deck.
At dinner that evening, there were two empty seats at the captain’s table. Halfway through the meal, the captain signaled to Dessard, who was hosting a party of less important passengers two tables away. Dessard excused himself and hurried over to the captain’s table.