When he emerged from the brig Finn noticed three things straight off.
First, as he headed back to his quarters to change and retrieve his knife he became aware of darted looks in his direction. He thought back to his first day on board, how when he walked the narrow passageways people would stand aside out of respect. Now they shrank from him as he passed.
People had to be making the same connection as Eagleberg had, and drawing the same conclusions. After all, the “suicides” started happening right after Finn came on board. And he’d gone off like a Claymore mine on those dudes in the gym. What was to say he wouldn’t go off on others?
What was to say he hadn’t gone off on Santiago?
The second thing he noticed was that they’d put increased security in place throughout the periphery of the ship, every spot with direct access to the open air.
Third, he’d picked up a tail.
A warrant officer, hefty guy. Finn had seen the face, didn’t know the name. When he came back out after changing and began his stalk, the WO had been replaced by another. No doubt there was a third in the wings. Tag-teaming it. An eyes-on scout rotation from Supercop.
This did not surprise him, but it did complicate things. Finn was on the hunt again. And putting surveillance on him was like belling a cat. Proceed with these well-meaning goons hovering in his wake, and it would almost certainly spook his quarry. He could easily shake them—but if he did, they would just redouble their efforts, which would make the bell jingle even louder.
He chose the middle path: keep his watchers on as long a leash as possible without seeming like he was doing so. Not ideal. But what was?
At 0100 he was making a pass on the mess deck when he saw Jackson coming his way. The two men stopped for a moment and eyed each other.
“Extra detail out tonight,” said Finn.
Jackson looked back at him with no expression. “Can’t have too much security, Chief Finn.”
“Exit points.”
“Seemed like the smart play.”
Finn saw the logic of it. Rule 1: always keep an open exit. Or, if you’re a serial killer: always do your killing as close as possible to where you can dump the body.
Thinking tactically. Not strategically.
“If it were me,” he said, “I’d do the opposite now. Go deep.”
“Deep?”
“Freezers. Machine rooms. Nukes. Deep.”
Jackson gave him a long look, as if trying to penetrate that blank face and see inside his head. Was Finn there to give assistance to Jackson’s vigil? Or was he the reason for the vigil? The CMC gave one slow, uncertain nod and rolled on.
Finn stood in place for a moment. Freezers. Machine rooms. Nukes. Fifty acres of interior. A good deal more territory than the periphery. Exponentially more. Impossible for twenty men to cover adequately, let alone one man.
Jackson was placing his bets on the tactical logic. Stick to the periphery.
Finn headed below.