And on a ship full of beautiful women there was one who seemed lit by a spotlight.
He couldn't figure out why this one girl was so special—even her beauty was dimmed by her fearless assurance. Her brazenness went beyond bravado—he'd seen tough chicks before.
She owned the world.
Small, she had hair of a dark shiny mahogany red, dark eyes; she was tanned a deep russet brown. She had a perfect body, breasts as round as small grapefruits—most of the day she only wore an orange bikini bottom, sometimes threw a man's white shirt over it, and somehow made that the perfect uniform for the Riviera.
She spoke so many languages Jamie had a hard time figuring out her nationality, kissed so many men he had a hard time deciding which was the fiancee; altogether, he had a hard time every time he saw her.
He couldn't remember wanting a girl as badly as he wanted this one.
He couldn't even have a good time at a whorehouse; the ones who looked like his passengers were too expensive, the others seemed stale and dull. And not one of them owned the world.
Her name was Selene.
He watched the young rich set skiing and swimming and speedboating, dancing and dining. He served their drinks, did his job, had his fantasies.
He took the first chance he was offered.
The other deckhand, the Frenchman, could swim, but obviously only as an alternative to drowning; Jamie would as soon be in the water as on the boat—no dreams of sharks ever troubled his sleep.
With inward reservations, the captain asked Jamie to keep an eye on the swim platform.
They drank a lot on the swim raft; the pleasant sweet smell of marijuana wafted from that end of the boat.
Jamie gloated when privately asked to add lifeguarding to his duties—Selene was always basking in the sun, like it gave her a deep, sensual pleasure.
He had many thoughts about having her in broad daylight, in the hot sun of the afternoon.
She gleamed in the light like a jewel.
It was late one afternoon, when they were anchored off Saint-Tropez. Jamie was free for a couple of hours; he decided to go for a swim himself if the swim raft was empty.
A hot pallor hung over the ship as it bobbed languidly in the dark blue water. The boat was quiet, it was the hour when most rested for the evening.
Selene was alone on the raft, and she looked up as he paused in the stairwell.
Jamie felt his heart quicken, the immediate throb of desire.
She was stretched out on a large turquoise beach towel, a Tom Collins glass beside her.
Gin and lemon. That was her drink. Jamie made them extra strong for her but could tell no difference in her behavior.
"Need another drink?" Jamie asked. His tongue felt swollen. The air seemed to hang heavy and hot.
She raised her sunglasses and held up her suntan lotion.
"Could you put a little on my back? I can't bear to leave while there is any sun left."
Her English was accented, but he couldn't place it.
Jamie stood motionless. "Sure."
Elation vied with nervousness for only a moment, as he jumped down the stairwell onto the deck.
She rolled onto her stomach. Jamie sat beside her. He could smell lemon juice in her glossy hair, then the coconut scent of the lotion overpowered it.
He had never touched such satiny skin. The lotion slid over it. She was very warm, almost hot, to his touch. She caught her breath, and he smoothed the lotion over her shoulders, down her back, ran a finger gently but firmly down her backbone. He swallowed as she made no move to stop him. He went a short way into the crease of her buttocks. She had a small, heart-shaped butt, just made for gripping.
"Your name is Jamie?" she asked softly.
The sound of his name in her mouth made his heart stop.
"Yes."
"That is very nice, Jamie."
He grew more confident, remembering other female bodies under his hands—
He smoothed the lotion on the back of her legs, thighs, slid his hand under the bikini bottom...
The sun hung heavy and hot and motionless in the sky, no air stirred.
Selene sighed and rolled over on her back. She kept her eyes closed under her sunglasses, but her breathing changed. A heavy excitement pushed every thought from Jamie's mind, except for this ... here ... now...
His hand, still slick with lotion, slid downward—he paused to rub her navel with a gentle finger, exploring ... mimicking a thrusting motion. Then he slid it between her legs. She moaned, shuddered into climax.
Jamie had tears in his eyes from holding back, his whole body ached with tenseness; he bent over to kiss the lips that had swollen on their own ... oh God, he couldn't wait much longer.
The stinging slap startled him so much he took almost a minute to realize it came from her.
"And what do you think—I would get personal with a deckhand? That such a person could kiss me?"
Her voice dripped amused scorn.
"W-w-what?" Of all times for his stammer to reappear. He thought he had never been so hard, so ready...
"Go away." She rolled back onto her stomach, but not quickly enough to hide her smirk.
Jamie's face went hot, but he couldn't even grasp at anger, through the intense frustration.
He heard the speedboat coming and stumbled to his feet, to his cabin, while the slap still burned like a brand on his face.
A cold shower didn't help—he had to take care of it the old-fashioned way.
And thinking of her...
He had to bartend that night; the guests were all motoring over to a cruise ship for dinner. He was grateful for that.
If he thought he had to wait tables tonight he'd throw himself overboard.
And the way he swam it'd take days to drown.
Selene was a wearing a white Moroccan caftan that clung enough to show she wasn't wearing anything under it.
She was the most beautiful of a set of beautiful girls. And as he went by them with a tray of drinks he heard his name mentioned in a stream of foreign language, the sound of laughter, unmistakable in any language.
He went hot, and later, as she sauntered by him, he felt her hand squeeze his butt.
He had never hated anyone so much. He had never wanted anyone so much. He had never experienced hate and desire at the same time. By the next day it was apparent she was going to continue tormenting him.
He couldn't touch her. But if this went on much longer, he couldn't not touch her. He would lose control.
He had never hated a woman before, had never even slapped a whore. These violent fantasies were new to him.
But in reality, he dreaded being around her bold smirk. She was always brushing up against him, many times he felt her hand. And he was still so excited by her it was impossible to conceal it.
He knew what she was whispering to her friends, and they laughed at him for it. He knew he should quit before he killed someone.
But he couldn't even imagine what elaborate tale Kellen would make of it, if he quit. He knew he'd meet up with Kell sooner or later; he'd seen him twice on the Riviera, getting into a limo, playing tennis at a hotel where Jamie was picking up guests.
He could just imagine saying, "Yeah, I had a great job till some little rich bitch ran me off."
No girl was going to chase him off this boat.
He stayed and did his job. Got madder, and hotter. It was his first experience with obsession.
And very late one night, when they had cruised back to Saint-Tropez and docked, when the French deckhand was in the town for some kind of family reunion, the captain busy in his cabin aft, and Jamie lay in his bunk, hot-eyed and fantasizing, Selene slipped down the narrow stairs of the hatch and stood next to him.
Wordlessly, he grabbed her wrist and in a second she was pinned under him. He had no thought but vengeance.
She was wearing a short white terry robe; when he yanked it open she was wearing nothing.
He couldn't breathe.
<
br /> Her eyes glittered in the dark like a cat's. "I like it rough," she said, breathless.
"You came to the right place," Jamie muttered. He pinned her wrists over her head with one hand, the other grasped a breast viciously.
He kissed her mouth hard, biting to make her lips swell. His knees forced her legs apart.
"You came to the right place."
He entered her immediately, and began acting out his dreams.
And, in the morning, when he lay there, totally exhausted, completely over his obsession, he thought he'd never want to touch a girl again. Jamie thought he was no stranger to perversion, but sex had always been a pleasant activity—if not always accompanied by intense emotional commitment, at least a good-natured desire for mutual fun.
But now—now there would always be the whisper of violence, of hatred...
Selene staggered to her feet, picking up her robe. Jamie flinched to see the bruises and welts already rising on that perfect body, the blood on her swollen mouth.
"Thank you very much. Here." She took a few franc notes from her robe pocket and dropped them on the floor next to the bunk.
She tossed back her hair and, moving like a drunk trying to conceal that fact, stepped carefully up the narrow staircase.
Jamie was now feeling the deep scratches down his back, on his buttocks, the bites on his neck—one especially where her teeth had grated on his collarbone and he had barely felt it at the time.
He was ashamed of a night of sex for the first time in his life.
He had been used. No matter what he'd done to her, what sick intense pleasure he'd had, he'd been used.
And when the gendarmes came up the gangplank at noon, all the uneasiness, the shame, the fear crowded thought from his brain and he panicked....
"It wasn't my fault," Jamie said again, but knowing it was hopeless to try to explain it to Kell, and feeling he'd prefer being executed to trying.
Kell sighed. He didn't want to make promises. He changed the subject.
"You look like shit, lad. Is it so bad in here?"
Jamie seemed to have aged years.
"Well, there's an Algerian in here, he's got his eye on me, I can't go to sleep and I didn't sleep the night before," Jamie said. "You got something, Kell?"
He knew Kell was rarely without a shiv in his shoe. And he knew no visitor here was searched too carefully—cigarettes and drugs and money could be bartered with guards.
"Here." Kell took the long-bladed stiletto from his sock and slid it under the table. "Careful, Jamie. If you're caught there'll be nothing I can do."
"Won't get caught." Jamie put the knife in his pocket.
"Can I trouble you for one of my cigarettes?" Kell said.
Jamie tossed him one, and the matches, and bit his lip to keep from begging for help.
He'd deserved a lot of the trouble he'd had in life, but not this....
"Well, Jamie." Kell leaned back, taking a drag on his cigarette. "It must be a fine thing, to be young and handsome and have everyone who sees you, man or woman, dog or cat, looking to rape you."
Jamie stared at Kell, then burst into laughter. There was no hysteria in it at all.
Damn Kell, he was so good....
"Kellen, please." He wiped a tear from his eye, grinning at his old partner. "Get me outta here. Please. I'll do what you say from now on. I promise, I swear my solemn oath ... please. You always say you have something on at least one official in every port...."
"Ah, Jamie, I have leverage on three here, and I still may not... it'll mean calling in valuable chips, lad, remember... and money up front as well...you'll owe me, Jamie....
"Well, I'll see what I can do.... You've a rare smile, Jamie. You should use it more often."
Train to Swiss border September 1964
"The girl has an evil reputation, Jamie. You weren't the first she's put in jail. It helped considerably."
Jamie looked out the window, took another pull on his beer. The new stitches in his cheek throbbed. His arm ached, too. The doctor had insisted on an antibiotic when he saw the festering bite—nastier than dog bites, he scolded, he must be careful. "Yeah, sure," Jamie'd said. "I won't let anyone bite me again." Already it was receding like a bad dream. He didn't want to talk about it.
"You're looking better, lad, rested. Did your amorous suitor give up his pursuit? Or perhaps you succumbed to his charms?"
"He's dead," Jamie said. "Tripped and fell on a shiv. It was real peaceful in there, after. Everybody was afraid they'd trip and fall on a shiv. Except me. I don't trip easy."
He met Kell's eyes.
"Well, I'm glad you've rested."
After a silent hour, Jamie asked for the first time, "Where we going?"
"Switzerland. I need to visit my bank."
"You make some money?"
"Some, not as much as I'd hoped—the lady's children got wind of our romance. Just as well. I don't believe I'm quite ready for marriage, after all. Not yet."
Kell paused. "And from there we're going to Liverpool. There's a ship with a special cargo ... we'll visit my homeland before going on...."
"Liverpool? Aw, man, I hate that place, you know that—"
"Well, Jamie, I did think your eternal gratitude would last longer than an hour."
Jamie stammered lamely, "Uh, it's just so c-c-cold ... I don't mind Liverpool, Kell, honest."
"I must do my patriotic duty, Jamie, a chore for God and country. Then a trip to Boston ... I have some friends in Boston who could use a little help...."
Jamie had never understood Kell's explanation of Ireland's "troubles" or his role in it, and didn't care to.
"We ever going anywhere fun?"
"Perhaps Jamaica, or New Orleans, for a holiday, once we get things done—
"Havana," Kell said. "It's too bad you missed Havana in its heyday, Jamie. The women there are just your type."
"Not rich," Jamie said. "That's my type."
"Only in good nature, Jamie."
Jamie leaned back against the seat. It was good to be without tension, to sit and relax and listen to Kell's voice.
The first thing he was going to do in Switzerland was get shit-faced, falling-in-the-gutter drunk. He needed that.
Kell was eloquent on the charms of Cuba.
Jamie dozed, dreaming of the girls.
Terrace View Asylum, Delaware April 1967
Jamie and Dr. McDevitt sat on the porch watching the math professor play with his dog.
He threw sticks, and the dog would fetch, jumping and leaping, begging for another toss.
"You ever have a dog, Jamie?"
"No. There was a monkey ... on a freighter out of Singapore ... It did tricks."
Jamie's speech was halting, slow, the depression so obvious Dr. McDevitt made a note to try a new medication. He glanced at the long belt on Jamie's robe, and made another note.
According to his records, Jamie had withdrawn so completely at Eastern State that they'd used shock therapy. Dr. McDevitt ordered it only for the worst cases, and never if the patient was amnesiac.
Jamie swallowed, blinking back tears.
"I think Grenville forgot about me," he said.
Dr. McDevitt hid his excitement. This was the first time Jamie had shown any memory of the man who was paying the bills here at Terrace View. Grenville Hawkes.
What had triggered it?
"Why do you say that, Jamie?"
"Well, he shoulda come to get me by now."
Jamie watched the golden lab race after the stick, bring it back proudly to his master. Sometimes the man would stop to talk to his wife; the dog sat eagerly waiting.
"You think he forgot?"
"I don't know, Jamie."
"I used to work for Grenville," Jamie said. "At Hawkes Hall."
Louisa Kahne
Terrace View Asylum, Delaware May 1967
After improving for a few weeks, Jamie suddenly relapsed into a quiet stupor. Dr. McDevitt was not unduly worried; he had seen similar
behavior before. Often it was just exhaustion from beginning human interaction again.
Jamie usually responded if spoken to; he was far from catatonic. He was still brought to Dr. McDevitt's office three times a week. But if he showed no inclination for talking, even for answering yes or no, Dr. McDevitt did not try to force the issue.
Nothing irritated him more than hearing someone shout questions at a patient, as if he were deaf instead of mad.
This morning Jamie did not even nod hello but sat staring at Dr. McDevitt's desk or, more precisely, at the model ship in a bottle that ornamented it.
Dr. McDevitt said, "Good morning, Jamie," but could see that further inquiry would be useless. The doctor glanced again through Jamie's files.
Jamie had been due for release from Eastern State just before he was transferred here. Not because of any miraculous recovery, but simply because the kidnapping charges had been dropped. Lack of evidence ... the girl involved too confused to testify—
If Louisa Kahne had not intervened, Jamie very likely would have been transported to the state line and dumped there. It was not unheard of....
It was an act of kindness, generosity, from Jamie's employer, Grenville Hawkes, of course, but: "Where does Louisa Kahne fit into this?" the doctor wondered aloud.
Jamie raised his head and looked directly at him.
"Dr. Kahne better get out of Hawkes Harbor. She wants to help it, but she can't."
The doctor stared, dumbfounded, then hastily scribbled down those two sentences.
"Why do you say that, Jamie?"
But Jamie Sommers was gone again, perhaps to sea in a masted ship....
Dr. McDevitt looked at the note. Dr. Kahne? Surely Louisa wasn't trying to pass herself off as a physician. She had left med school without the degree. Then he remembered her degrees: history, anthropology, specializing in myth and folklore. Of course, technically she could use the title, but still...
What was it she couldn't help? Jamie had phrased it so oddly, as if ... Yes, the way he said "it." As if "it" were a title, or as if "It" was a name.