Collision Course
Gordon Korman
BOOK TWO:
COLLISION COURSE
Gordon Korman
FOR DAISY
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
About the Author
Other Books By
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
RMS TITANIC
FRIDAY, APRIL 12, 1912, 4:50 P.M.
“But, Mrs. Rankin!” the steward exclaimed in confusion. “You have four sons, not five!”
Five boys, ranging in age from six years old to seventeen, lined up in descending order of height in front of the bunk beds in the narrow third-class cabin.
“I think I know my own children, Mr. Steptoe,” the slight, red-haired woman replied. “Aidan, Curran, Patrick, Finnbar, and Sean — he’s the wee one.”
“The reason I’m asking,” the steward stammered, flustered, “is Second Officer Lightoller believes there may be a stowaway on board the Titanic —”
“So he sent you down to the steerage, because where else could a lawbreaker be?” she finished coldly.
“I’m merely saying,” Steptoe soldiered on patiently, “that it’s my recollection that you boarded in Queenstown with your four sons — three here in the cabin with you, and your older boy in the forward berths, with the single men.”
“Then your recollection is wrong.” Mrs. Rankin may have been small, but raising a family by herself in County Kilkenny had made her tough. “I may not be a millionaire like your John Jacob Astor up in first class, but you have no right to interrogate me in the peace of my own cabin.”
“Madam, your stubbornness would be astonishing in the most obstinate mule!” The steward’s face was red with frustration. “I shall return with the passenger manifest and prove that I am right!” He stormed out, slamming the hatch behind him.
Paddy Burns, age fourteen, stepped out of the line of boys. He was fair of complexion, and dressed like the younger Rankins, in a plain work shirt, breeches, and knee socks. But he was not one of them. Was it really only ten days ago that he had been living on the streets of Belfast, picking pockets to survive? The great Titanic had been nothing more than an immense form under construction in a slip at Harland and Wolff. The four towering smokestacks had cast shadows over Paddy, Daniel, and half the city.
Daniel, the best friend a lad could ever have. Dead because of my mistake …
He shook his head to clear it. All the sorrow in the world wouldn’t bring Daniel back. Besides, it wasn’t the Rankins’ problem. The family had risked a lot to protect Paddy from the crew. Harboring a stowaway was a serious crime.
“That steward will be back, he will,” Paddy fretted. “And he’ll bring the passenger records to prove how many there are in your party.”
Mrs. Rankin was unworried. “We’ll tell him he must be soft in the head, because that’s what we’ve been saying all along. He was the one who had it backward.”
“But —”
She awarded him a motherly smile. “We Irish haven’t survived all these years under the English because we’re stupid and weak.”
Paddy nodded slowly. “First the clothes, and now protecting me — I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”
“You’ll repay me by making a life for yourself in America,” she assured him. “The English can steal our crops and tell us there’s a famine. But our spirit — that they’ll never take, not even with their soldiers and their guns. Now off you go, before Mr. High and Mighty comes back.”
Paddy stepped out into the third-class passageway. In the days since he’d become an accidental stowaway aboard the Titanic, he’d explored every inch of the magnificent vessel. Steerage was not nearly as opulent and luxurious as first class or even second. But the entire ship was brand new — clean and freshly painted. And, he reflected ruefully, he’d only seen a grand total of three rats — far fewer than he and Daniel had chased out of the abandoned print shop they had made their home back in Belfast.
Belfast. It already seemed a million miles away, and a hundred years ago.
Make a life for yourself…. Mrs. Rankin’s words echoed in his mind. Did Paddy even deserve a life after what his heedlessness had done to Daniel? Perhaps not. But the world continued to turn, and the ship continued to sail. He had to live in the here and now, not in the past. If surviving made little sense, the alternative made that much less.
So, to the matter at hand. He needed somewhere to go — a place where Lightoller and the other officers would not find him.
But first he had an errand to run.
He found a companion stairway that led up to E Deck, and hurried forward along the wide corridor nicknamed Scotland Road.
As he walked past crew members, he fancied that their eyes were scanning him. It made him nervous. But, he reasoned, the stowaway had been last seen wearing a steward’s uniform. Clothed as a third-class boy, he should be safe enough — unless he ran into Lightoller or one of the sailors who had seen him up close.
He rounded the corner and approached the office of the master-at-arms. Word had traveled around the ship that two second-class passengers had been locked in the brig for attempted murder, most foul. Paddy knew all about it, because he was the one who had nearly been killed.
Flattening himself to the bulkhead, he peered in through the doorway. The desk was deserted. Boldly, he took a step inside and turned to face the detention cells.
There they were: Kevin Gilhooley, brother of the most powerful gangster in Belfast, and beside him, a hulking bodyguard with a thrice-broken nose, Seamus.
“You look good behind bars,” Paddy said with satisfaction. These were the two who had killed Daniel, and had recently tried to pitch Paddy off the top deck of the Titanic.
“You’re a lucky little rat — I’ll give you that,” growled Gilhooley. “But luck won’t stop this boat from reaching New York. And then you’re mine.”
“And mine,” added Seamus in a nasal voice.
Paddy stuck his jaw out defiantly. “You’ll never touch me! You’re going to jail for what you did!”
“You think the Americans will be interested in what happened aboard a ship half a world away?” Gilhooley shook his head. “Enjoy your sweet voyage, boy. Use their gymnasium and have yourself a real Turkish steam bath. Because when I get my hands on you, you’re going to squeal like your little friend in the Belfast shipyards.”
To hear Kevin Gilhooley talking about Daniel’s murder — bragging about it — turned Paddy’s rational thoughts into a blind rage. He snatched the pitcher of ice water from the desk and flung it at the cell.
There was a crash as the glass shattered against the bars, sloshing a torrent of water and broken shards over Gilhooley. The shocked howl that exploded from the gangster’s throat came as much from the icy deluge as from anger at Paddy.
“Guard!”
Paddy darted out of the office, moving away from Scotland Road, where crew members were sure to hear Gilhooley’s bellowing and come running. He hurried up a small companion staircase past D Deck to C and paused, catch
ing his breath.
A well-dressed gentleman in a dark suit shot him a disapproving glance as he walked by.
He was in first class now — he could tell by the luxurious thickness of the carpeting, the paneled walls, and gleaming brass fixtures. Dressed like a common urchin from steerage, he stood out like a sore thumb.
Third-class passengers were not allowed in this domain of millionaires. That made no difference to Paddy — strictly speaking, he wasn’t allowed anywhere. Still, if he were caught and questioned, sooner or later someone would realize that he and the mysterious stowaway happened to be one and the same.
He had to get out of here. But where could he go? He couldn’t head below. At that very moment, a search party could be forming on E Deck. And going up would only bring him farther into the rarefied air of first class.
He caught a flash of navy blue at the end of the passageway — the color of the officers’ uniforms. Paddy froze. Lightoller?
No, but not much better — Fifth Officer Lowe, known for his megaphone voice and firecracker temper.
Paddy looked around desperately. The corridor offered no hiding places, only solid bulkheads and locked staterooms.
In the opposite direction down the hall, a maid was wheeling a canvas bin, collecting linens. He watched as she knocked on a cabin door, opened it with a passkey, and disappeared inside.
The decision was made in the blink of an eye. Paddy sprinted along the passageway and dove into the cart, burrowing deep into a collection of large, thirsty bath towels. A moment later, the maid emerged. A few more towels were tossed on top, and the cart began to roll again.
He held his breath, waiting for the sound of pounding feet on the carpet. Then his cover would be cast aside, and Lowe would be glaring down at him….
It didn’t happen. The hamper stopped. More linens were added, and they were moving once more.
He shifted his position and felt a corner of folded paper scratch against his skin. He had doggedly held the drawing to his chest ever since Belfast. He was not at all certain why. He both loved and hated this weathered page. Loved it because it had come from Daniel. Hated it because it had cost Daniel his life.
Mr. Thomas Andrews himself — creator of this great ship — had challenged Daniel to imagine a way the unsinkable Titanic might sink. And Daniel had succeeded! At least, Paddy thought he had. Try as he might, Paddy could not make head or tail of his friend’s strange sketch. Daniel had been so much more than the street lad that fate had made him. He was cleverer than the designers and engineers who built ocean liners.
Paddy’s thoughts darkened. Daniel had been murdered while trying to deliver this drawing to Mr. Andrews. And in that way, Paddy cursed it — just as he cursed himself for bringing Kevin Gilhooley down upon them.
Paddy’s reverie was interrupted by the rattle of a gate, followed by the maid’s voice: “B Deck, please.” And then they were rising.
Paddy had never been on a real electric elevator before this voyage, but it was a common thing for the Titanic’s passengers. The liner had three of them.
So he was away from Fifth Officer Lowe. It was good news, but it also introduced a larger problem. Up here, in the heart of first class, how was he ever going to get out of this linen bin?
He was trapped in the lap of luxury.
CHAPTER TWO
RMS TITANIC
FRIDAY, APRIL 12, 1912, 5:05 P.M.
“Don’t mind the cold, my dears! The stimulation of physical exercise will soon warm your bones!”
Major Mountjoy’s ample belly wobbled with each step as he set up the ringtoss game on a wide part of the A-Deck promenade.
Sophie Bronson and Juliana Glamm exchanged dubious glances. How much physical exercise could they expect from Major Muttonchop, their dinner tablemate and quite possibly the most boring person aboard the RMS Titanic? Sometimes it seemed as if he intended to spend the entire voyage tracking them like a bloodhound. Sophie and Juliana were equally determined to avoid the man.
“Well, let’s get on with it,” Sophie announced with a sigh. “Those rings aren’t going to toss themselves.”
She caught a sharp look from her friend, who was an earl’s daughter, and more accustomed to the old-fashioned ways of society. Sophie was an American girl, very much in the new twentieth century. She got this from her mother, who was modern in her thinking. Too modern, some would say. But that was another story.
“Quite right!” the major blustered through his bright-red side whiskers. “The key to success at ring toss is a combination of arm speed and keenness of eye. There is no strength involved; it is pure skill.”
Sighting like a marksman, he leaned forward and launched his ring. It landed on edge and rolled like a hoop, coming to rest against the half wall that semi-enclosed the promenade. Had it not been for the abutment, it would have wound up in the sea.
“Nice shot,” Sophie commented blandly.
Juliana took a ring and awaited her turn. Major Mountjoy did not move, but stayed frozen in his follow-through position.
“Are you all right, Major?” she asked solicitously.
“I seem to have done myself an injury,” Mountjoy replied in a strained voice. “It happened during the Boer War, in a cavalry charge outside Jo’burg. I was in charge of a brigade then, you see….”
It boggled the imagination, Sophie reflected. Even doubled over in pain, Major Muttonchop could still come up with a long, dreary story. All the way down to the hospital on D Deck, he rambled on about his exploits in South Africa. His posture may have been locked at a right angle, but his mouth was in perfect form.
“Shed no tears for me, my dears,” he called as they made their escape. “I shall be right as rain in no time. I’ve had this crooked back since that cavalry charge outside Jo’burg….”
The story restarted, this time aimed at Dr. O’Loughlin, the Titanic’s surgeon.
The giggling began on the elevator.
“Sophie!” Juliana hissed. “It’s not seemly to laugh like a hyena in public.”
“I’m not laughing,” Sophie gurgled, barely under control. “I’m shedding tears for the major.”
That set Juliana off. And by the time the girls let themselves into Juliana’s stateroom, B-56, they were both shedding tears for Major Muttonchop — tears of mirth.
“If he got the wonky back on a cavalry charge,” Sophie managed, “think of the wonky back on the poor horse that was carrying him!”
“How long has he been pleading for the honor of teaching us the fine points of ringtoss?” Juliana added. “And then, on his very first throw —”
She fell silent, frowning. The suite was as beautifully appointed as any chamber in any manor house in England, with elegant furniture, silk wallpaper, velvet drapery, and a vaulted ceiling. Every detail was perfect down to the tiniest tassel on the Persian rug in the sitting room.
So why was a stack of blankets piled haphazardly on Juliana’s canopy bed?
“This isn’t the level of service one would expect of the White Star Line,” she said disapprovingly. “I shall ring for a steward at once.”
“Julie,” Sophie chided, “why drag some poor fellow away from his tea break? In half the time it would take for him to come calling, you and I could set everything right.” She bent down to the captain’s drawer built into the bed and pulled on the handle. Her brow furrowed. “It’s stuck.”
She grabbed on with two hands and yanked with all her might. The chest lurched open, and she cried out in shock. There, his knees drawn to his chest in the tight space, lay Paddy Burns.
“I can explain —” he began.
“Paddy, what are you doing in first class?” Juliana blurted.
Paddy bristled, and Sophie could see why. Here he was, a stowaway, hunted by the White Star Line and, up until a few hours ago, ruthless gangsters. And what was Julie’s reaction to finding him skulking in the furniture? What was his business amid the nobility and high society of the Titanic’s upper decks?
&nb
sp; “Well, I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d pop in for a spot of tea,” Paddy told Juliana in his best English accent, which wasn’t very English at all.
Sophie played the role of peacemaker. “She means why are you in her stateroom — and in the drawer, of all places?”
Stepping gingerly out of his hiding place, Paddy recounted the story of his visit to the brig, and how the laundry cart had provided his getaway. “By the time it was safe to climb out of there, I was all the way up on B Deck. I recognized your stateroom, and I thought —” He studied his battered hobnail boots on the lustrous carpet. “Well, miss, you were kind enough to help me the last time —”
“But how did you get inside?” Juliana persisted. “The suite was locked.”
“Ah, the lock.” Paddy produced a small hairpin from the pocket of his breeches. “Begging your pardon, but I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”
There was a click, and the door of stateroom B-56 swung wide.
“Julie?” queried the voice of the seventeenth Earl of Glamford.
“My father!” Juliana hissed urgently.
Before Paddy could respond, Sophie pushed him back down into the drawer and slammed the captain’s bed shut.
“Hello, Papa.” Juliana stepped into the doorway in an attempt to block the goings-on with her slender figure. “How was your card game?”
“Excellent,” he replied briskly, although his sour expression and the dark circles beneath his eyes told a different story. The earl’s fondness for gaming was exceeded only by his lack of skill at it. Nowhere was the situation more dangerous than on a long ocean voyage. There was an abundance of wealthy players and precious little else for them to do.
He looked beyond his daughter to Sophie in the bedchamber. “Miss Bronson,” he acknowledged with barely a nod.
“Your Lordship,” Sophie said, nodding back. Uh-oh, she thought. He seemed to be slurring his words. Julie had said that her father drank when he was losing at cards. More likely, he lost at cards because he was drinking. There was an expansive light-brown stain on his shirt. Liquor. She was sure of it.
