The Devil's Whelp. Vin Hammond Jackson
nostrils.
Jerry tried to raise Mike, but the man refused to budge. "Someone give me a hand," said Jerry. "Take them both to sick bay."
"What about the hook, Doc?" someone asked. "You might need a disgorger." The comment was followed by a few chuckles.
Presswood noticed Mike's body flinch. It was a primer activated by the ill-timed quip, a warning that the situation needed defusing before the grieving oil man gave vent to his pent-up emotions. "Cut that out!" snapped Del. His eyes panned the ring of faces. "I need four men to lend a hand. The rest of you get back to work! The show's over."
Del accompanied Jerry Dennis and his two patients to the sick bay before finally returning to the Company office. Meyer had no doubt been pacing like a caged tiger, but he stopped the instant Presswood entered. "Well?"
Presswood hooked his thumbs in his belt. "What kind of a circus, are you running here, Les?" Meyer opened his mouth to protest, but Presswood didn't give him the opportunity. "Don't bother to answer that - I'll figure it out in due course. Now, where can I find my quarters?"
"You can't go yet!"
"I'm tired."
"But you haven't told me what's going on, what you're doing about it!"
"There's nothing to tell, Les. I don't know what's going on. All I know is that a roustabout called Eric Sutcliffe is dead - possible cause: drowning. Jerry's doing a preliminary examination now. When I have his report, I'll radio town...."
"I'll talk to town," insisted Meyer. "I'm in charge here. Don't overstep your authority, Del."
Presswood shrugged. "Okay, Les, have it your way. If one of us is going to get egg on his face, it might as well be you."
"What do you mean....?"
The intercom buzzed. Meyer tutted then went over and spoke into it. "Les Meyer. What is it?"
"Jerry Dennis in sick bay, Les," said the speaker. "I think you'd better come and take a look at this."
"Just tell me Jerry."
"It would be better if you saw it for yourself. Bring along the new toolpusher. I think he should see it too."
"Okay, Jerry," sighed Les, "But I hope you aren't wasting my time." He headed for the door and glanced sideways at Presswood as he passed, but said nothing.
They were in sick bay in a matter of minutes. Jerry led them over to a cot where Sutcliffe's body lay, still on the stretcher, covered by a sheet. Meyer advanced only so far then hovered in the background. Del said: "What's that awful smell?"
"It's on the body," said Jerry. "Some kind of slime. I don't know what it is, yet. It was on the ladder in the moon pool as well."
"Is that all you brought us here for?" grated Meyer.
"No," replied the medic. "Something else, and I warn you, you won't like it." He stretched out a hand and began to peel back sufficient sheet to reveal his patient's chest. Eric's striped shirt had been unbuttoned, then loosely replaced with the panels overlapping. "Check this out," said Jerry, pulling the shirt-front open.
"Jesus!" said Del.
Meyer gagged.
"I told you, you wouldn't like it."
Del leaned over for a closer look. "Could he have done that himself?"
Jerry shrugged. "I suppose he could have, but how many people do you know could even cut themselves deliberately, never mind self-mutilation on this scale?"
Presswood straightened up. He was unable to take his eyes off the word which had been raked into the flesh of Sutcliffe's chest. "Does it mean anything - 'fuckwit'?"
"Apart from the obvious, I don't know." Jerry covered the chest with the shirt and drew up the sheet. "But that's not up to us to decide."
"That'd be right!" said Meyer at last. "Dump it all in my lap. As soon as things start to get...."
"Jerry wasn't referring to you, Les," cut in Del. "He was meaning the police."
"Police!!" Meyer caught hold of Presswood's arm and turned him; then he was gripping both arms tightly above the elbows. "Why do we need to bring the police into this?"
Del looked down poignantly at Meyer's hands. The fingers opened slowly and they fell away. Del brought his eyes up to focus on the Company man's face. "Because they don't like people solving their own murder cases, Les, not even Company Drilling Superintendents."
5
Del eventually made it to his room. Typical of the conditions under which they all worked, it was without trimmings and purely functional. In the early days, he had tried adding personal touches such as photos and the odd ornament in the hopes of creating a more homely atmosphere, but they had merely served as constant reminders of the place he would rather be. Then, when things had started getting strained between him and Sal, the mementos had become weeping sores he hadn't the time or the expertise to cure, so he'd packed them away and had attempted to lose himself in the job. Now he had come full circle and was wishing he had something of Liz's to remind him that not everything in his life had been a total disaster.
It was probably just as well there was only the letter. It was one thing he definitely wouldn't be sticking on the wall or leaving around for some inquisitive bastard to find and talk about. If there was nothing to suggest otherwise, the crew would tend to regard him as a cold son-of-a-bitch who felt more for his job than he did for anything else in the world. If they thought that, they might leave him alone to sort out whatever mess had been dumped on him.
He was still pretty much in the dark about that. Apart from refreshing his unfortunate acquaintance with Les Meyer, he hadn't spoken to anyone in depth about anything. There hadn't even been time to follow up on Doug Bromley's suggestive warnings. Now that the recent events seemed to confirm his predecessor's suspicions that something weird was going on, he figured the smartest game he could play was solitaire. Perhaps after an hour or so of his own company, something might start to make sense.
The outer room was merely an office, furnished with filing cabinets, desks and other more specialised equipment. Being only small, it was a work-jungle and wasn't helping his frame of mind. He passed through to the sleeping quarters which he knew would be smaller still, but might, at least be conducive to relaxation, after a fashion.
The smell hit him the instant he walked in. Del screwed up his nose at the lingering must of stale tobacco smoke which rose to meet him. He would have to try to ignore it. At least Doug hadn't smoked a pipe. Del caught himself wondering about Bromley's taste in pickles and gave himself a sharp reprimand: "It's finished," he growled and tossed his luggage onto the bed.
Three strides and he was at the door on the far side of the bedroom. He peered in. It was just the usual mini-bathroom, except there was no bath. There never was when he felt in need of a good soak. He went to the wash basin instead and splashed water on his face. Then he looked up, saw the reflection of his battered countenance in the mirror, sighed and went in search of a towel.
He knew that stretching out on the bed was the wrong thing to do, but he had only intended to take the weight off his feet for five minutes. He awoke with a start when he heard a man's voice. There was a shape hovering in the doorway. He blinked at it. "What? Who's that?"
"Jack Pierce," mumbled the visitor awkwardly. "Look, I shouldn't have disturbed you. I'm sorry." His head disappeared and Del could hear footsteps crossing the office.
"Jack, wait!" he called. "It's okay." He swung his legs off the bed and lumbered, still half asleep, towards the door. Pierce had stopped and turned in his direction. "What did you want?"
Jack shook his head. "It can wait. It wasn't important."
"Stay anyway," said Del. Pierce looked nervous. "Really, I mean it. You did me a favour. I never intended to doze off. Pull up a chair." Del was attempting to push his shirt-tail back into his pants