Cruise to Retribution

By Lisa Friedman

In a tiny village in the Adirondack Mountains, fifteen year-old Righteous Markland snaps. Driven by madness and rage, he slaughters his own parents and the three children next door. In a final gesture of twisted glee, Righteous Markland slits his own throat. The year is 1911.

Nearly a century later, Dean Brasil, a once promising psychologist, hosts evening hypnosis shows aboard the luxury cruise liner, The Spirit of the Sea. What begins as harmless amusement for the unsuspecting participants quickly proves to be anything but amusing when, under hypnosis, three complete strangers are accidentally regressed to a place of terror and fear.

Baffled by their common recollection, Dean Brasil searches for the universal thread that binds them to each other. What he finds, however, forces them all to confront a haunting possibility.

Righteous Markland lives.

Come aboard! Meet the colorful, soulful characters who explore impossible possibilities while learning what it means to celebrate and heal and remember. Cruise to Retribution is an entertaining adventure filled with humor and sex and challenge and danger: a novel that makes your heart swell and your mind surge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Friedman
• Release date: Sep 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781937387624

Lisa Friedman

Lisa K. Friedman's work appears in the New York Times and other prominent publications. She writes a humor column for Annapolis Home magazine and has numerous essays in print around the nation. She is the author of Capital Baby and the Birth Date Book series. Lisa keeps her diplomas over her washing machine, Hershey's chocolate in her car's glove compartment and is widely known for eating ice cream out of the container with a fork. She lives in Washington DC.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lisa K. Friedman is an award- winning writer and columnist whose work has appeared in the Modern Love and LIVES sections of the New York Times, as well as other national and regional publications. She is the author of the acclaimed psychological thriller, Nothing to Lose. Lisa lives in the Washington DC area where she writes the blog Dementia for Survivors and the humor series Laugh Out Loud.

For more information, visit: www.lkfriedman.com

Also by Lisa K. Friedman

Nothing to Lose

Capital Baby

Birth Date Books

Cruise To Retribution

PROLOGUE

JULY, 1911

The boy sat with his head hanging down, rubbing his thumb along the blunt side of the knife. It was his father’s knife, used for cutting down long vines and branches of the thick underbrush that covered the mountainous region where they lived. The boy’s father, Lance Markland, used the knife to clear a path to the gin still a hundred paces from their back door. He had left the knife in the shed, its strong tip buried in the hard wood of the worktable. That’s where the boy, Righteous, found it.

The Markland house sat alone on White Lake. There was one other house directly across the lake, but it could only be seen in the winter when the trees were thin and the smoke rose from the chimneys all day and night. Righteous Markland turned the heavy knife in his big hand and looked over the still water of the lake.

There were no sounds, but Righteous was bombarded with abrasive noises. His heart hammered, pounding with ominous regularity. The sweat that streamed from his pores screeched like fingernails on slate as it trickled down his face and body. His breath was a thunderous rumble, a wide low whine of crackling sound as he inhaled and exhaled. A mosquito, drawn to the sweaty smell of his skin, settled on the back of the boy’s neck. Righteous felt its presence, but didn’t move. He fingered the long curved blade of the knife drawing the pads of his fingers over the tip and around the back side. The mosquito stung, and Righteous sliced the knife across his middle finger. He stood up and watched as the blood rose to the surface. Righteous smiled to himself. A mean and twisted smile.

Ten months younger, Melody Markland was a timid girl. At age fourteen, she had the well-defined body of a woman. Her pale face was thin and angular, adding decades to her appearance. Her pointed chin and long nose nearly obscured the existence of her tiny mouth altogether. She rarely spoke, and never laughed. When she was four, Melody knocked over her father’s stein, spilling the home-brewed alcohol on the ground. Lance swept his leg out from under him and kicked her on the forehead. She wore the mark of his rage on her forehead where a deep scar had formed in a half-circle indentation, shaped like the heel of his boot.

Melody worried about Righteous. He had some kind of demon in him, she thought. He talked until late each night, telling her about how he killed animals while out on his long walks in the mountains. He described how he killed a goat outside of the Leary’s farm, using a big rock to smash its head. He told how he used a piece of wood from the Leary’s corral fence to peel off the goat’s skin and how he had to use his fingers to pull out pieces of bone from inside the animal’s warm brain.

Once, he bragged about killing a baby bear that he found drinking from the lake. He told Melody that he sliced open the cub and held the animal’s heart in his hand while it still had a beat. Melody listened to the stories in silence, grateful for the blackness of the night. She needed her brother; his physical presence was the only companionship she trusted. But she recognized that he was slowly leaving her, not in body but in mind. He was going crazy, of that she was sure.

Their mother, Evelyn, tended to the house in oblivion. Since Melody’s birth fourteen years past, she had been unable to conceive. That Evelyn did not produce many offspring was a great affront to the manhood of Lance Markland. Families only survive if they produce, Lance would say. And you can’t produce anything more than a dim-witted boy and a mute girl.

Then, finally, in the winter, Evelyn became pregnant.

Evelyn became obsessed with her condition. She turned over her chores to Melody and demanded that she be left alone to care for the unborn baby. She warned Melody and Righteous not to talk about bad things or even think evil thoughts. She didn’t need any more curses to land on her, she said, not when she was this far ahead.

She knew without seeing that Lance violated her daughter. Jealousy and fear kept her from interfering. Anyway, she convinced herself, it was temporary. Once the baby was born, Lance would return to her bed. Soon, she thought, their house would overflow with children. She chose not to notice that her son’s eyes raged with hate, and that her daughter withdrew even further into herself.

One night, Melody woke with a start. She had fallen asleep in the shed after churning butter for the better part of the day. She sat up and squinted in the dark. She twisted her head, straining to hear. She heard insects and birds and some chomping sounds, but nothing else.

Listening still, she realized that she was afraid. Her heart pounded too hard, and she pressed the raw skin of her palm against her breast. Her body broke out in a fast sweat. Something was wrong.

Come out, a soft, familiar voice coaxed from the darkness. It’s all over now.

Melody moved toward the sound of her brother’s voice. She rose, feeling the limp weight of her tired arms hanging by her sides. Emerging from the shed, her eyes adjusted to the light from the moon, and searched for Righteous. He was standing near the house. She stared at the shadowy figure for several long minutes before trying to speak.

What’s all over?

They’re gone. Righteous stared at Melody through black eyes. His voice was monotone, robotic. Melody began to shake.

Who?

Everyone. Righteous moved away from the house and began walking to the lake. Melody didn’t want to follow, but her body moved forward in his wake. She noticed the long, curved blade hanging from his hand. As he moved closer to the water, the moonlight was reflected off the shiny, still lake and illuminated him. He turned, and Melody saw him clearly.

Righteous was covered in blood. His face was splattered with red, as if someone had shaken a wet paintbrush at him. His clothes were soaked with it, and it clung to his body like hair. His own long black hair was slick with blood. He shifted his weight from side to side, almost dancing in his own excitement.

I went up to the cabin yonder. Went to take care of them. They were such a bunch of cowards, screaming and jumping around like rabbits. He waved the knife in a forceful upward motion while whistling spittle through his teeth, making a zipping sound. He wiped his lips on his sleeve and a band of blood streaked over his mouth. He stuck out his tongue and licked his sticky lips. They were all there, the three of them snot-nosed rodents. You should have seen their faces!

The little one saw me first. What’s her name? Eva?

Melody nodded, frowning. Yes, Eva. She’s the youngest.

Well that runt, Eva, saw me and started squealing like a pig, pointing at me and jumping up and down. I did her first, just to stop the squealing. He pulled the bloody blade across his chest and simulated a stabbing motion toward his belly. Marcus jumped down from the rafter and landed right on top of me. Thought he was being a hero, rescuing his sister and all. But I was ready for him. He slashed the blade through the air, crossing the space between himself and Melody three or four times.

Melody pressed her palm over her mouth. Her stomach tightened.

Righteous laughed at her reaction, nodding with manic enthusiasm. Gilbert was over at the fire and he came at me with a fire-iron raised over his shoulder. He started swinging at my head! He was yelling and turning purple in the face. Righteous threw his head back and, with arms outstretched, shouted to the sky. He was the worst of the bunch! Making up that idiot song about me being a ‘mad dog’! Well, hey, Gilbert? Who’s laughing now?

The darkness absorbed his high-pitched laugh.

You’re talking crazy, Melody said in a whisper. You didn’t kill anybody. You couldn’t. Her own words reverberated in her head. This was what she had feared. She knew he was going to snap. It was only a matter of time.

I did, he said, I did them all. He took a backwards step toward the water. It had to be done. All of them had to suffer. Now it’s all over. Now I’m free.

Melody sucked in her breath and took a step toward him.

No! Righteous shot his arm out, pointing the blood-stained knife at her. Don’t come near me.

Melody gasped and began to whimper.

You have to stay here, Righteous said gently. He hated to see his sister cry. He took a deep breath and continued in a strong voice. I’m finished.

Whirling the knife in a circular motion, Righteous placed the pointed tip against his own throat. If you catch it here, he said, calmly indicating the part of his neck just under his right earlobe, the animal dies fast. His tone was that of a teacher demonstrating a technical procedure to a student. Melody watched the swift movement of his hand and saw the tip of the knife disappear in the soft flesh of her brother’s neck. She lunged toward him. Before she reached him, Righteous leaned back away from the point of entry and fell into the dark waters of the Old Forge Lake.

Melody ran toward the house. Inside was dark, despite the dim glow of the lanterns. She stumbled, confused. When her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she looked around. Lance Markland was slumped in his chair, asleep. Melody actually felt relieved to see him there, then she stopped and stared at the stain on his shirt.

It was blood.

She watched as the shiny dark stain crept down leaving an insidious red scar in its path. The blood came from a hole in her father’s chest. Melody tried to look away, but her eyes wouldn’t respond. They stared at the hole, unblinking. Melody thought about Righteous’s story of the cub and its tiny beating heart. She felt bile rise in her throat and she clasped her hand over her mouth.

She tried to move her feet but they were stuck, as if she stepped in mortar. She looked down and saw the body of her mother just gracing her muddy shoes. One more step, she realized, and she would have fallen on top of the body. Melody dropped to her knees. Her mother had been slit from her neck to her groin. Her head was twisted back so that Melody could only see the smooth underside of Evelyn’s chin. Melody could smell the stench of death coming from her mother’s body.

She shifted, trying to find a place to balance her hands without touching the body. She inched back away from her mother and rested back on her knees, letting her head hit the floor. She tried to breathe but the air that came into her mouth was sour and heavy. She needed air. Melody placed her hands alongside her knees and pushed herself up. She turned her head to wipe her forehead on her sleeve and that’s when she saw it. Her mother’s future. The thing that would change the course of their family. In a pool of blood was a fetus, its torso split open by the cut of a knife.

Melody rocked back on her heels and threw her head back. Out of her throat came a sound, a guttural, animalistic howl that started as a cry and escalated to a wild, far-reaching scream that carried far in the thin night air. All along the valley, her voice blanketed the forest, settling down like an itchy wet blanket. Finally, a wicked northerly wind carried the wild howl away from Old Forge Lake, and into the mountains beyond.

CHAPTER 1

PRESENT DAY

The tail end of winter left the land cool and saturated with rain. Outside the city the air smelled of the earth—damp, musky, and rich. New crops promised to rise from the ground. Shiny leaves of orange and grapefruit trees turned toward the sun in anticipation.

All along the shore, birds pranced on the beach, chasing back the waves, their underbellies darkened by oil leaked from pleasure boats, ocean liners, and cruise ships.

The city streets, cleansed of soot and smog, gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. Pedestrians shed their raincoats and extra sweaters, and walked the streets with enthusiasm in their steps. The end of a season, even in the temperate climate of Florida, inspired a feeling of optimism, of hope, of change.

As dusk began, the sky flared with colors. In front of the brilliant orange sunset, the tall buildings of the city took on a shadowy hue. The whiteness of the ships in the harbor was a striking compliment to the ever-darkening landscape.

The harbor, a complex network of sprawling piers and docks, teemed with activity. Deck hands, ship’s crewmates, and tour guides moved assuredly through the crowds while tourists turned in ever-widening arcs, trying to find their way. The wooden piers groaned under the collective weight as the crowds hurried along, scurrying and colliding like a swarm of locusts.

The assembly line of giant cruise ships bobbed and swayed in the marina, straining against their braided lines and chafing against the wood dock. Every few minutes a blast sounded, shaking the docks and adjoining piers, announcing another boarding call.

Atop the Spirit of the Sea, Dean Brasil watched the action on the docks down below. From his position on the top of the ship, it seemed that the ground itself was moving. Thousands of tourists moved quickly on the docks, checking their tickets and reading the port signs for directions.

At the starboard end of the Spirit of the Sea, Dean saw the luggage trolleys loading tagged suitcases into the purser’s compartment where they would be sorted and delivered to the cabins.

Down on the dock, a decorated umbrella marked the rear entry gate to the great ship. A huge mass of people pressed forward toward the rear gate, forming a wide funnel that spread out like an enormous fan. Looking forward, he saw a second funnel formed near the bow of the ship.

Through these two boarding gates, four thousand passengers would pass onto the ship for the ten-day cruise in the Caribbean. Dean watched the action, resting his chin and his hands on the polished wood rail. How many cruises had he worked? He couldn’t even begin to count.

A loud shout drew his attention. Dean adjusted his sunglasses and studied the crowd.

There were many types of travelers, he noted. Enthusiastic tourists pushed forward through the crowds, trying to get on the ship before the others, eager to start their vacation. They shouted when they talked, laughed loudly and held their cruise tickets high above the crowd. These passengers, he knew, would be drinking, dancing, and filling every vacation moment with raucous activity.

Eager passengers pulled each other through the crowds, bumping into more tentative travelers who stood on the periphery, tilting under the weight of their carry-on luggage. Many people carried winter coats under their arms. Dean noticed how tired some of them looked, like they felt worn down and overheated, bumbling and stumbling toward their destinations. They wouldn’t look like that for long, he knew. The tranquil sea had a way of healing. He was proof of that.

A crewmember waved to Dean from a lower deck. Dean nodded, unsure of the steward’s name. Though he had joined the staff of the Royal Caribe cruise line several years earlier, Dean kept himself separate from the other staff members. He didn’t fit in with the service personnel; indeed, he felt he made some of them a little nervous. ‘The Hypnotist’ they called him when they thought he wasn’t nearby. He chose not to socialize with the various musicians and entertainers living shipboard, preferring instead to be alone. It was a condition he was getting used to: being alone.

He watched a while longer, studying behaviors and faces. So many of them were tense and nervous, Dean saw, clutching their cruise tickets in their fists, biting their lips, frowning. He hoped their expressions would soon change. But he knew that not everyone would be calmed by the gentle motion of the ship or soothed by the warm caress of the sun. There were some people who were simply beyond redemption.

Dean scanned the crowd as they shifted and strained to see the gatekeeper. He checked his watch. Not too much longer. His fingers tapped nervously along the polished rail.

As he watched, the mass of people condensed into an ever-smaller group as passengers passed one by one through the boarding gates.

Ding. Ding. Ding. An ascending major chord, an arpeggio created by soft mallets bounced off of steel pipes. First the C note. Then an E, and finally a G.

Several passengers looked up, seeking out the origin of the sound.

The announcement was clear and loud: Ladies and Gentlemen. Good Evening. The voice had a distinct accent, an overpronunciation of the consonants. German perhaps.

‘Dis’ is your captain specking. His accent contorted the words.

"It is my pleasure to velcome you aboard da Spirit of the Sea, the prrride of the Royal Caribe Cruise Line. At this time I vould like to inform you dat we are currently vaiting for some passengers that vere detained because of bat vedder.

I have been informed dat the remaining passengers vill be aboard wit-in the next tventy minutes, and we vill be setting sail immediately dereafter. The word was projected through the loudspeaker as ‘dere-apter.’

Dean glanced at the Miami skyline. The sun had moved back in the blazing sky. The buildings shone like onyx. It was obvious why the cruise ships cast off at dusk, he thought, looking at the western horizon. The spectacle was breathtaking.

A cool breeze crossed Dean’s face. He drew the air in, deep. With his eyes closed, Dean listened to his heartbeat and slowed his breathing. Surprised, he opened his eyes and squinted at the shock of light. Nervous? Why do I feel nervous? In just a few hours, his show would begin. The same show he had performed dozens of times.

Something was different this time, he thought. But what?

Dean forced himself to smile at the guests joining him at the ship’s railing. Then, he straightened and walked away.

CHAPTER 2

Dusk hovered over the horizon as the first dinner seating began. Passengers entered the cavernous dining hall with their seat assignments in hand. Stewards directed traffic and escorted people to their designated tables where waiters appeared within seconds to take beverage orders and recite the specials.

The seats filled quickly and then voices melted together as people introduced themselves for the first time.

The misery man wasn’t feeling well. He stared down at his plate, eyeing the decorated salmon fillet as if it might speak to him. Every few seconds, he took a short breath. With trembling hands, he wiped his pale forehead with a napkin. His movements were slow and arduous. The woman sitting next to him leaned in and whispered in his ear. She patted his blotchy hand and looked away. One by one, the other dinner guests around the large round table cast fleeting glances in his direction. Finally, to everyone’s relief, he excused himself and left the dining room.

He’s just tired from the trip, Paula, the pale young woman sitting next to him said to no one in particular. She looked across his empty seat to Regina, the woman who spoke into the man’s ear. They nodded slightly at one another.

The dining room reverberated with sounds. Glasses clinked together like musical chimes and echoed in the huge room as drinks were delivered and cleared away. Bursts of laughter and shouts interrupted the low rumble of a few thousand voices sharing introductions and personal histories. Dishes clanged and silverware scraped against plates adding to the cacophony. Above all the human and material sounds, calypso music pulsed from the stereo speakers mounted in the walls.

Crewmembers moved between the tables in bright white uniforms smiling and inviting good cheer. Colorful and exotic flowers invoked a feeling of the islands. Each individual plate of food arrived decorated carefully with special attention to visual appeal.

The atmosphere was festive and charged with excitement and anticipation. Most diners were affected by the mood, smiling and talking easily with their new acquaintances.

After a few minutes, the misery man returned. His face looked better, not so sweaty and gray. Some of the hair hanging over his narrow forehead was wet from the cool water he had splashed on his face in the men’s room.

Are you alright? Paula asked. Her voice barely audible over the noise of the three-story dining room.

Sure. He looked at the empty place settings. Only his plate remained on the table set for ten.

The service on the ship was remarkably fast. The courses were served and cleared with almost comical efficiency and speed. The second seating would begin only ninety minutes after the first, and diners were quick to realize that they mustn’t put down their forks unless they were thoroughly finished eating or else the tuxedo-clad waiters would whisk their plates away before they had a chance to mop up the rich sauce with hunks of bread. The food was excellent, so no one complained.

Paula and the misery man leaned their heads together, talking quietly. He ate slowly and sparingly, careful not to let go of his fork.

A heavy-set woman directly across the table blotted her orange lipstick on the fine napkin and cleared her throat. She lifted her chin as if preparing to perform an aria and looked at each person at the table.

Well, I never, in all my thirty-seven years, had such a delicious meal. Her thick southern accent was so pronounced, it might have been false.

She adjusted the huge plastic glasses on her face and tossed her brown hair back with a chubby, manicured hand. She looked at the young man on her left, and asked, Where are you from, honey?

The large man smiled, creases framing his full lips. His dark hair hung over his forehead, pointing like black arrows to his clear hazel eyes. He had a straight, long nose and high, strong cheekbones. When she spoke to him, Arlene straightened her spine and pressed her shoulders back.

He noted her coquettish gesture and answered, I’m from Pennsylvania. He spoke quietly. Near Lancaster.

Oh, sounds nice. She made an effort to bat her eyes, but only succeeded in blinking heavily three times. Is that a fancy town? Arlene moved closer.

Fancy? No. It’s a rural area, farms mostly. He stuck out his hand, reaching close to her chin so that Arlene had to lean back away from him to shake his hand. My name’s Patrick.

Arlene. She whispered her name, holding his hand between her own like a treasure. The warmth of his skin penetrated her hands. I’m from Austin. That’s in Texas.

Patrick withdrew his hand slowly, holding Arlene’s gaze. Through her plastic glasses, her eyes shone with curiosity. What else was in there, Patrick wondered. Something more...

The waiter stepped in between them.

Texas isn’t fancy, Arlene said, louder so as to command an audience. It’s basic. We always say: ‘Texas is a basic place. Simple and straight.’ Just like the people who live there.

I have a great affection for Texas. Arlene’s voice reached out to the misery family on the far side of the table. She made sure she had everyone’s attention before continuing. My husband here, he was born and bred in Central Texas. Arlene patted Jake’s hand and smiled her round, beefy smile at him. But I’m a transplant. I’m from Oklahoma originally. I consider myself a Texan though, you can believe that.

Jake smiled back at his wife’s cheerful chatter and sipped his coffee. Are you traveling alone? he asked Patrick, and glanced quickly at the empty seat between them. Patrick mumbled, Yes, and then the waiter caught his attention with the dessert menu, preventing further inquiry or explanation.

Oooh, honey, Arlene moaned. How ‘bout the pecan pie? She lowered her menu and looked around the table. I just love pie. I never learned how to make one, though. But I buy those frozen pies. You know the ones with the frosting? Those are the best pies, I’m telling you.

I’m going to have cherries jubilee, Paula said. How about you, Regina? She looked at her daughter. Regina and Paula had thirty-two years between them, but other than age they were nearly identical. Both had short, unevenly cropped light hair. Their eyes were all tiny and set low on their faces. They both had small chins that jutted out making their posture seem pressed forward. Their faces were hollowed in the center by a concave grotto where their mouths were set. Identical again, the mouths were small and straight, framed by lines that surrounded the thin apertures like spokes. Paula had deep lines jutting toward her lips. Regina’s lines were more superficial, but had the same effect. They were the mouths of people who didn’t laugh. Mouths that didn’t experience joy or even levity. Sunk-in, colorless mouths.

Regina asked, Is there liquor in that? I don’t want anything with alcohol. I don’t want you-know-what to happen again.

What? Patrick couldn’t help himself from asking. He wanted the cherries jubilee, and needed to know what would befall him if he ate the brandy-laden dessert.

Well, last year I was on this very same cruise, Regina began, and the weather turned just before dinner. The dishes were sliding off the table it was so rough.

Oh my, I wouldn’t like that, Arlene said, holding the menu up to her chest, alarm in her eyes. I didn’t know the Caribbean could get that way. In Texas we don’t know hardly anything about the oceans.

Oh yeah, it gets rough, Regina continued. It was so horrible. Everyone got sick. Even the crew. I could have died and felt better. It was gross. She puffed her hollow cheeks out like a blowfish, reenacting the illness of the previous year.

What does that have to do with the cherries jubilee? Patrick attempted to move the conversation away from seasickness. He noticed for the first time the slight movement of the ship under his seat. He forced himself to focus on the topic of dessert.

The next morning the waiter told us that drinking makes seasickness much worse.

The Royal Caribe company must have lost money on that cruise, Patrick joked. What with the cost of drinks here. I’d hoped all drinks would be included in the cost of the cruise.

No, Jake spoke up. If you read the back of your contract, the one in the ticket pack, you’ll see that drinks are all extra. I read that and prepared in advance. I brought one bottle of gin with me. And we went to the duty-free shop soon as we got on board.