But then all there was to do was think about Hupp’s corpse and what they were going to do with it. And nobody seemed to want to touch that one. No one but Saks. While the others looked at just about anything else, Saks eyed the handle of a knife sticking out of Hupp’s boot. Making sure no one was looking, he plucked it free and stuck it in his own boot.
Nobody seemed to notice.
Except Cook. He saw it, of course. But Saks flashed him a smile, just to let that sono-fabitch know that he had his number. That when the time came, he’d be punching his ticket.
“What about Hupp?” Fabrini finally said.
But got no reply.
So Saks said, “Looks like we’re a little shy on a good burying hole, so he goes over the side.”
“You… you can’t do that,” Crycek stammered.
“Why not?”
“Jesus Christ, Saks, we should say something,” Fabrini said.
“Okay, you’re right. Goodbye, Hupp.” Saks seemed to find it amusing. “There. I said something.”
“You’re an asshole,” Cook told him, meaning it.
Saks grinned. “Good, glad you feel that way. You can help… take him by the feet there. On the count of three…”
Since they’d gotten on the hatch cover, Cushing had heard it all again and again. Soltz had a nervous stomach, sensitive skin, arthritis in both knees, countless allergies, angina, myopia, a scalp condition, and was prone to gingivitis, bladder infections, and unexplainable pains in his legs. He was like a walking textbook of hypochondria. Back on the ship, he’d had medications for all these things-pills, salves, drops-but now he had nothing.
And he made sure Cushing knew it.
Cushing didn’t know how much more he could take. Soltz was bad enough with his constant litany of complaints and ailments, but there were worse things happening than that. And the bottom line was that they were trapped in some terrible ocean and Cushing was pretty sure it wasn’t a backwash of the Atlantic.
He kept telling Soltz not to worry. That the fog would lift and they’d be rescued… but how much longer could he keep that up?
“There really is no chance, is there?” Soltz said.
“Sure there is,” Cushing lied once again. “Patience is the key. You just gotta be patient.”
But Soltz looked defeated. “No doubt we’ll be long dead before help arrives. If it ever does arrive.”
“It will. It has to.”
“I need water,” Soltz moaned. “I think I’m dehydrating.”
“You’re not dehydrating. It takes longer than this to dehydrate.”
Soltz fingered his balding scalp. “Maybe for you. I’m different.”
“You’re not different.”
“Yes, I am. I always have been. I’m more sensitive to these things than most. To just about everything.”
Cushing sighed. How the hell did I end up with this guy? he wondered.
“Soltz, why the hell did you sign up for this?” he asked. “I mean, why would a guy like you want to go down to South America and chop a runway out of the jungle for chrissake? It looks to me like day-to-day living is too much for you.”
“Money. Isn’t that why we all do things, Cushing? Isn’t that why we all take foolish chances and put our lives on the line?” Soltz said to him. “Well, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Besides, I have high insurance premiums.”
“You’re kidding me,” Cushing said. “A guy like you?”
“Oh no, it’s true. I have terribly high insurance premiums. You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
Cushing buried his head in his hands as Soltz went into graphic detail about enlarged tendons and fluid being drained from his knee with needles. The only time Soltz seemed to be happy is when he was either complaining or discussing some medical procedure.
“I need water,” Soltz said again when he’d finished making Cushing queasy. “I’m beginning to feel dizzy.”
“You’re fine.”
“You don’t know.”
“Yes, I do, dammit. You’re not dehydrated. Not yet. When your lips start cracking open and your tongue bloats up and turns black, then you’re dehydrated. You’re just thirsty now. There’s a difference.”
Soltz licked his lips. “Already my lips hurt.”
Cushing gave up. If he wanted to think he was dying, who gave a damn? Let him think it. As long as he did it quietly and without drama, Cushing didn’t have a problem with it. Right now, save for rescue, all Cushing could think of was his brother-in-law, Franklin Fisk. The same dumb bastard who’d organized this little party. And the very same bastard who’d drafted Cushing to go along as a spy. A spy. Jesus Christ, but it was hard to believe. Hard to believe that Cushing himself had gone along with it. Who gave a good goddamn what Saks was up to? If Saks was alive, floating around out there somewhere, and they bumped into him, Cushing was going to tell him the truth. And he wasn’t going to stop there. This would be more than an admission. He was going to tell Saks everything he needed to take old Frank Fisk down. And nobody knew the Fisk dirty laundry like Cushing did.
The idea of this and only this made him smile.
Payback.
“What is that?” Soltz said.
