Read White Cargo for Free Online

shoulders, her breasts bared. Her head jammed against the forward bulkhead at an odd angle, and her mouth open. Her face streaked with blood from her mouth that streamed in dried clots down the bulkhead until it met the rising water. There was not the slightest hope in his heart that she was not dead.
    Jinx, facedown, naked, on the saloon table, her feet toward him, her face, thank God, turned away. The back of her head pulp. Her legs open, blood in her crotch and on the backs of her thighs. On her left buttock, clearly imprinted on skin kept white by bikinis, a large handprint. Not hers, the angle was wrong. Handprint of someone standing behind her. Handprint in her blood.
    He stared up at the sky, wanting unconsciousness, but it would not come, not yet. His mind groped for something else to think about, something to blot out what he had seen.
    EPIRB. What did those goddamned letters mean? Let’s see, yes, almost; got it! Emergency Position Indicator Radio Beacon!
    But what did the words mean? He could not think anymore. He gave himself, gratefully, to the rising red and blackness.

5
    C AT WOKE GENTLY, AS FROM A DEEP SLEEP . I T WAS AMAZINGLY cool, he thought, for such a hot climate. There was a lot of whiteness around him. Everything was white.
    He felt a rush of panic and tried to sit up but could not. He was too weak. What was happening? He tried to calm himself; he looked around the room, wanting a clue to his whereabouts. A hospital, obviously. There were three other beds in the room, all empty and unmade. A stand beside his bed held a container of clear liquid, which was attached to a needle in his arm. Had he hallucinated? Had all of it been a horrible dream? He placed a hand on his chest and found thick bandages. He pressed slightly, and was greeted with a stab of pain. No dream. It had happened, and to his great sorrow, he was having no trouble remembering all of it.
    He found a buzzer hanging near his head and pressed it. A moment later a Latin woman in a nurse’s uniform rushed into the room. “You are awake,” she said, rather stupidly, Cat thought.
    He tried to speak, but his throat and tongue were as dry as paper. Nothing would work. The nurse seemed to understand and poured him a glass of water from a bedsidethermos, stuck a glass straw in it, and offered it to him. He drank some cool water, then flushed his mouth until the paper feeling went away.
    “Where?” he managed to say.
    “You are in Cuba,” the woman replied. Her accent was only slight.
    “My family,” he said. He had to know if it had been real.
    Her face twitched. “I’ll get somebody,” she said, and left the room.
    A couple of minutes passed, then the nurse returned with a young man in a white jacket over what looked like naval uniform trousers. “I’m Dr. Caldwell,” he said to Cat, reaching for his pulse. “How are you feeling?”
    Cat merely nodded. “My wife and daughter are dead,” Cat said. He stated it as a fact; he didn’t want to give the man an opportunity to lie to him.
    The young man nodded. “I’m afraid so,” he said. “You remember, then.”
    Cat nodded. “Are you Cuban?”
    The doctor looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh, no,” he said, finally. “You’re at Gantánamo Naval Base, not on Cuban soil. A Coast Guard search and rescue chopper brought you in here two days ago.”
    “How badly am I hurt?”
    “Well, you weren’t in very good shape when you arrived. We spent a couple of hours picking birdshot out of you. What was it, a .410-gauge?”
    Cat nodded. “My own.”
    “Be glad it wasn’t a twelve-gauge and buckshot. You’re in no danger, as far as I can tell. In fact, I’m surprised it took you so long to come around. It was almost as if you didn’t want to wake up.”
    “The boat?”
    “There’s an investigating officer here; I’ve sent for him. He’ll fill you in.”
    As if on cue, another officer, a lieutenant, entered the room. “Hello, Mr. Catledge,” he said. “Welcome