Burn (Page 89)

"So do I," Linda said wistfully. "My husband was a soldier. Vietnam. Wayne was killed when I was eighteen, just a couple of months after we got married. He was only nineteen."

Chills crawled up Jenner’s arm; Tiffany’s easy smile faded.

Linda had a look on her face that was both dreamy and painful. "Wayne was it for me, he was the one. I never remarried, never got over his death. We had just a few months together, not years, and there are times when I feel like I’m drowning because it was so incredibly unfair …"

Tiffany laid a comforting hand on Linda’s shoulder. "I’m sorry. That really sucks."

"I never talk about this." Linda wiped away a tear. "What’s the point?"

"Because it helps, sometimes," said Jenner. "You can talk to us about it, any time you like."

"I suppose I can." Linda tried a smile, which didn’t work well. "Once we’re off this ship we might never see each other again. Who better to confess to than a stranger?"

"We’re hardly strangers, not anymore."

"That’s true." Linda sighed. "There really isn’t much to tell. I loved Wayne with all my heart, he died, and ever since then I’ve been in a kind of limbo, just waiting for the day when I’ll join him."

"No!" Tiffany said explosively, then she cranked it down a bit. "Don’t talk like that. You have a lot of life left in you. You should enjoy every day."

"I do. I have a good life."

"The uniforms upset you. It’s understandable," said Jenner.

"Things are a little close to the surface today. I dreamed about Wayne last night," she added. "God, it’s been years since I’ve dreamed of him that way. You know how some people will say that they’ve forgotten exactly how a lost loved one looked, or how his voice sounded. I never forgot. Never." She shook off her melancholy. "You girls don’t want to hear an old lady go on and on."

Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden eruption of noise from the crowd around them, and they looked about to see that one of the gray-haired gentlemen had been bought by a woman who was boogying up to the dais to fetch him.

"Maybe you should buy yourself a man for the night," Tiffany suggested.

Linda gave a slight smile, and in a very soft voice said, "That never worked."

Chapter Twenty-seven

CAEL HOPED HIS HEAD WOULD BE PUT ON THE CHOPPING block first so he could get this ordeal over with, but no, they decided to save him for last. A bartender and then a popular steward went first, then a couple of widowers, then a shy man who was there with his fiancee, who dutifully bid on him until he was hers – for the evening’s record sum of seven thousand.

There were a couple of catcalls as Cael was introduced. From what he could see, they all came from rich, primarily white-haired, giggling widows. Playing along, he tipped his hat to the crowd. He even winked at one blushing matron. He looked for Jenner, but she and Tiffany were no longer standing where he’d last seen them. Great. They were probably in Tiffany’s suite or in one of the bars, yucking it up at his expense.

Somebody was going to pay for this.

The bidding started, and quickly escalated. He passed the five-thousand mark within a few minutes. Still no Jenner. Cael caught Ryan’s eye; he and Faith were amused, and a little worried, but there wasn’t much either of them could do. If Jenner or Tiffany didn’t step up to save his bacon, he was going to end up the property of either the plump, lascivious granny in the lime-green fringed dress and matching fishnets or the scary-looking broad with too much makeup and unnaturally blue-black hair. They were the only two left in play, as the bid passed eight thousand.

A flash of red in the crowd caught his eye. Jenner was making her way toward the front of the crowd, with Tiffany close behind her. Jenner raised her hand and got the auctioneer’s attention.

"Fifty thousand," she called in a clear, steady voice.

The crowd murmured, a few people applauded. The scary broad looked pissed as she and the lime-green granny conceded the bid – not that either of them couldn’t have offered more, but there was only so much money they were willing to part with just for a little bit of fun.

"Poor baby," Jenner said confidently as she reached the dais. "Did you really think I would share?" The crowd burst into laughter and applause as she claimed him. He was the only one in a position to see how cool her gaze was, and he knew she was still pissed off.

LARKIN HAD LEFT the costume party and escaped to the quiet of his suite. If he’d had to listen to more of that fucking music, he’d have thrown the musicians overboard. He sat at the desk in the parlor, writing a letter on his e-mail program. He wouldn’t send the e-mail until the last possible moment, but he wanted to be prepared. He still wasn’t sure who to send it to. The New York Times, the Washington Post… but newspapers were going the way of the dodo. How many people bothered to read them anymore? He should also send the e-mail to a couple of television networks.

I take full responsibility for the destruction of the Silver Mist and its passengers. If I could take more of you assholes with me …

No, if he wanted the letter published in its entirety, he’d have to watch his language. Fucking pussies.

If I could take more of the worthless parasites of the world with me, I would. Gladly.

He could die with a bang or he could fade away; he really wasn’t a fading kind of guy. Serial killers, bringers of mass destruction, they were remembered long after they left this earth. He would be remembered, too.

When the Silver Mist blew out of the water on the tenth day of her maiden voyage, I made my mark on the world. At the end of the day, money means nothing. Power is reduced to the simple control over life and death.