The Deep Page 11

  “For anyone fool enough to try,” said Treece.

  Sanders felt a pang of irritation at Treece’s manifest faith in his invulnerability. “What are you, bulletproof?”

  “I don’t imagine. But there’s bush about me. A lot of people believe that anyone who mucks with me will be a goner within the day. It’s a nice myth to foster.”

  They reached the top of the hill and walked to the picket fence surrounding Treece’s house. The dog, feeling spry again, had already vaulted the fence and was sniffing at something on the front doorstep.

  “Tomorrow?” said Sanders.

  “I’ll be looking through papers all day.”

  “Should we call you at Kevin’s?”

  “If you want. Or come out, if you’re curious to see how thrilling it is to root around in dusty papers looking for a set of initials.” Treece opened the gate and stepped into the yard. “Either way, we’ll talk.” He walked toward the front door.

  Sanders removed the padlock from the front wheel of his motorbike. Like all mobilettes rented to tourists, his had no automatic starter, no gears, and a maximum level speed of 20 mph. He sat on the seat, opened the throttle halfway, and pushed on the pedals. The bike moved slowly; the engine chugged twice and caught.

  He heard Treece call, “Hey!” He throttled down and pedaled the bike in a tight circle back to the gate.

  “Have a look at this.” Treece held something in his hand. It was a Coke bottle, with a white feather inserted in the neck.

  “What is it?”

  “Bush. To scare me, I guess—though I don’t know how they expect voodoo to work on a Mahican Indian brainwashed in Scotch Presbyterian schools.” Treece gazed out over the dense underbrush surrounding the yard. “But I’ll give ’em this: They’ve got balls, just to come around here.” He cradled the bottle in his hand. Then, angrily, he pegged it high in the air. The bottle spun, catching rays of light and breaking them into shimmering green and yellow fragments, and fell out of sight behind the cliff.

  The headlight on Sanders’ motorbike was weak, barely adequate to illuminate the potholes on St. David’s Road. He traveled slowly, sensing the road rather than seeing it. At the bottom of a short hill, the road bent sharply to the right. Sanders braked on the way down the hill, and by the time he reached the bottom the motorbike was moving so slowly that it wobbled. The road rose again immediately. He opened the throttle and pedaled with his legs, but he could not generate enough momentum. The bike tipped. Sanders dismounted and began to push the bike up the hill, helping himself with short bursts from the hand throttle.

  When at last the road leveled out, Sanders stopped to catch his breath. He sat on the seat and hung his head. When he looked up again, he saw a black shadow standing just beyond the reach of his light.

  A voice said, “Have you thought about our offer?”

  Sanders didn’t know what to say. He looked around, and heard only cicadas, saw only darkness. “We . . . we didn’t find anything.”

  The voice repeated. “Have you thought about our offer?”

  “Yes.”

  “And have you come to a decision?” The accent was lilting, Jamaican. Not Cloche.

  “Well . . .” Sanders stalled. “Not . . .”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Not exactly. There hasn’t been much time. I . . .”

  “We’ll see, then.” The shadow moved back into the underbrush. There was a rustle of foliage, and the road was empty.

  We’ll see, my. eye, Sanders thought. If they want to do something to me, why didn’t they do it then?

  Then a shock went through him: Gail.

  C H A P T E R

  V I I

  He fell twice on South Road. The first time, rounding a corner, unable to see more than ten yards ahead, he banked the motorbike too sharply. The rear wheel hit some gravel and skidded, and Sanders landed on the road on an elbow and knee, shredding the skin. He fell a second time right before the turnoff for Orange Grove. He had the throttle wide open and was moving fast, with too little light to give him notice of a sudden left turn in the road. He went straight, plowing into the bushes. Thorns and branches lashed his face and tore at his clothing. As he righted the motorbike and pushed it back onto the road, he felt frantic, almost hysterical. He gunned the engine, and the bike lurched off down the road. He tried to calm himself, arguing that if anything had happened to Gail, he was too late to stop it—nearly an hour had passed since his talk with the man on the road. But what if she was hurt and he could help? What if she was gone?

  He turned into the Orange Grove driveway and, through the bushes, saw that there were lights on in his cottage. He dropped the bike, and as he raced for the door, he could see through a window someone in the bedroom. He stopped, feeling the thump of pulse in his temples. The curtains were half-drawn, but Sanders recognized Gail—sitting on the end of the double bed, her hair a mess, her nightgown askew. She was staring, as if hypnotized, at something on the floor.

  He threw the door open and saw her recoil, terrified, her arms clutching her breasts. At her feet was a shoe box full of tissue paper.

  When she saw Sanders, she let out a gasp and began to sob. For a moment, he looked at her, stunned. Then he shut the door and went to her. He sat on the bed and put his arms around her. She trembled, and the sobs made her back heave.

  “Gail,” he said. She seemed unhurt; there were no marks on her. Nevertheless, he assumed she had been raped, and when he closed his eyes, he conjured a scene of three or four black men—he thought particularly of the young man with the scar on his chest, Slake—holding her down while, one at a time, they assaulted her. The thought nauseated him, he felt dizzy. He wondered what he would feel the next time they tried to make love. Then anger replaced nausea, and he tried to think how, where, he could get a gun. “Take it easy. It’s okay. Tell me what happened.”

  She nodded. “I’m probably . . .” she said, trying to control the convulsive sobs, “. . . silly. It wasn’t . . . that bad.”

  “What did they do?”

  She looked at him and realized what he was thinking. She smiled weakly. “They didn’t rape me.”

  Sanders felt relief, but almost simultaneously he sensed regret at losing the supreme cause for revenge. He still wanted to kill them. “What was it, then?”

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “Twelve-fifteen.”

  “At eleven I went to bed. I locked the door and put the chain on it. I must have gone right to sleep. I don’t know how long I was asleep, but I heard a knock on the door. I thought it was you. I called your name, but a voice said: No, you’d been hurt in a motorbike accident, said he was a policeman sent to take me to the hospital. I opened the door. There were three of them.”

  “Did you recognize anybody?”

  “All of them. They were all at Cloche’s the other day. One used to be our waiter here, the one with the big scar.”

  “Slake,” Sanders said.

  “He was the one who pushed me. He put his hand right here”—she cupped her hand over her mouth—“and shoved me back on the bed. He said if I made a sound, he’d cut my throat. I think he would have.”

  “I do, too.”

  “He kept his hand on my throat and asked if we were going to co-operate. I told him . . . I suppose I was a little blunt . . .”

  “What?”

  “But I was so scared, and I was sure I was going to be raped no matter what. So I said, ‘Go fuck yourself.’ All he did was laugh and say in that way they have, ‘You be careful, missy, or it be you get fucked.’ Then he asked me again what we were going to do, and I said something like, you can tell Cloche we wouldn’t do what he wants for ten million dollars.”

  “Maybe you should have lied.”

  “I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction.”

  “So then?”

  “One of them said, ‘Let’s do her.’ Then I knew I was going to be raped.” She shuddered, and he held her shoulders tighter. “ ‘Do her.�
�� God, what a horrible word. It’s like what they used to say: ‘Let’s waste him.’ Slake held my throat with one hand and yanked up my nightgown with the other. He held me so tight I couldn’t look down. All I could see was the ceiling. I felt a pair of hands pulling off my underpants.” She stopped and began to cry. In a corner, Sanders saw her pants. The fabric was wrapped around the elastic; they had been peeled off her hips and thighs.

  “I thought you said they didn’t . . .”

  She put a hand on his knee and shook her head, sniffling and swallowing. “They didn’t. One of them held my legs and spread them apart. I’ve never felt anything like that in my life . . . helpless, open. It was awful.”

  “But they didn’t hurt you?”

  “No. The next thing I felt was like a finger running all over me . . . down there . . . from my belly button on down. But it wasn’t a finger. It was softer, kind of hairy. I still don’t know what it was. A brush, I guess.”

  “A brush?”

  “Look.” Gail lifted her nightgown above her hips and lay back on the bed.

  Sanders felt panicked and had to force himself to look. He remembered a time, years before, when a doctor friend had invited him to watch an appendectomy. Sanders had worn a surgical mask, and the patient, a teen-age girl, had assumed he was the doctor. Lying there, with her privates exposed and shaven, she had begged him to make the scar as small as possible, so it wouldn’t show above her bikini. Sanders found himself fascinated, mildly (and ashamedly) excited, and, finally, when the first incision was made, repulsed.

  Gail noticed his discomfort, and she said, “It’s okay. Look.”

  There were six red smears on her groin, rough lines running crosshatched—from pubis to navel, hip to hip, pubis to each hip, and hip to navel. The design, such as it was, looked like a kite.

  “What is it?” Sanders asked. “Paint?”

  “No. I think it’s blood.”

  “Not yours.”

  “No. Animal blood of some kind.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I tasted it. It tastes salty, like blood.” She sat up and lowered her nightgown.

  “Did they say anything?”

  “Nothing. Neither did I. I was so scared . . . as long as they weren’t hurting me, I didn’t dare say anything. The whole thing took less than a minute. Then Slake said, ‘Now maybe you think again.’ He let me go, but I didn’t move. Then one of the others put that thing on my stomach.” She pointed to the shoe box. “He said it was a present from Cloche.”

  Sanders leaned over and unfolded the tissue paper in the shoe box. “Oh, Christ,” he said.

  “I don’t ever want to see it again.” Gail stood and walked to the bathroom.

  Sanders put the shoe box on his lap and removed the doll. It was crude—linen wrapped around straw—but its meaning was clear: the hair on the doll’s head was human, exactly the color of Gail’s. Her appendectomy scar was stitched to the right of the silver sequin that represented the navel. And there were six red streaks on the doll’s groin, in the same pattern the men had painted on Gail. But the streaks on the doll had been slashed with a knife, and from them tufts of red and blue cotton hung grotesquely down the legs.

  Sanders stared. His fingers felt cold; his mouth was dry and cottony. He had never known a fear like this. Threats to himself he thought he could handle, but this was beyond his control—which, he was sure, was what Cloche had in mind. He heard water running in the bathroom.

  “It’s blood,” Gail called. “It comes off easily.”

  “Do you think they really would . . .” Sanders started to ask.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Sanders pitched the doll across the room. He went to the telephone and, when the hotel operator answered, said, “Get me Pan American, please.”

  Gail came out of the bathroom. Her hair was combed, and she held a glass of whiskey in her hand. “This should help,” she said. “It’s . . .” She stopped when she saw Sanders on the phone.

  “Oh, for . . .” Sanders said into the phone. “Okay, thanks.” He hung up.

  “What were you doing?”

  “Trying to get us the hell out of here. The airlines don’t open until nine in the morning.”

  “You mean home?”

  “Damn right.”

  “But he’ll follow us.”

  “Let him.”

  “I’m all right.” She saw that the hand holding the glass of scotch was shaking, and she smiled. “I’ll be all right.”

  Sanders paused. “I don’t think they’re kidding. Neither do you.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then what’s the argument? It’s not worth the risk, not even the smallest chance that somebody really would rip your guts out. Treece said it: We’re here on holiday, our honeymoon, for God’s sake. We’re not here to get murdered by a maniac.”

  “It’s not us you’re worried about, is it? It’s me.”

  “Well, not—”

  “You think you can take care of yourself.”

  When he said nothing, she continued. “Don’t worry about me. We can’t spend the rest of our lives terrified. Besides, we have to stop Cloche from getting those drugs. He’ll use them to ruin lives, to kill innocent people; he doesn’t care. Well, I do. I’m going to do what I should have done all along: go to the government. I have to.”

  “What do you mean? Treece told you: It won’t do any good.”

  “Maybe not, but I can’t walk away from it.” Her hand still trembled, but there was a look of fierce intensity on her face. “It wasn’t you they threw on the bed; it wasn’t your crotch they painted. I’m staying, at least until I talk to the government.”

  Sanders looked away.

  She went to him and touched his face. He put his arms around her and kissed her forehead.

  “What did you find tonight?” she asked, her head against his chest.

  “Ampules. Boxes of the damn things. They’re there, no question.”

  “Any Spanish stuff?”

  “A silver coin and a gold medallion.”

  “What did Treece think about them?”

  “He thinks there might be another ship. Underneath Goliath.”

  Sanders recounted his conversation with Treece, and as he spoke, the enthusiasm he had felt on the boat returned.

  Watching him, seeing his excitement at the prospect of a treasure, his delight in the newly learned minutiae of Spanish ships, she felt like smiling. But, out of the corner of her eye, she could see the doll.

  Treece looked tired; his eyes were red, and the skin beneath them was lined and puffy. He seemed subdued. He led the Sanderses into the kitchen, where the dog lay curled by the stove, occasionally licking the bandage on her flank. On the kitchen table was a neat stack of papers—some old and yellow, some photostats.

  Gail told Treece about the visit from Cloche’s men and showed him the doll.

  “He’s trying to spook you,” Treece said, “show you how powerful he is. Not that he’d hesitate to kill you. But at the moment it wouldn’t accomplish anything for him. All it’d do is raise a storm and seal it good you wouldn’t help him. But if he ever decides for himself that you really won’t go along, beware. The bastard’d cut your throat as soon as shake your hand.”

  “We almost left,” Sanders said.

  Treece nodded. “It’s not sure he’d get at you in New York.”

  “Not sure?” Sanders said. “You think he’s serious about following us to New York?”

  “Wouldn’t have to follow you. A phone call’d suffice. He’s a vengeful bugger and well connected. But no question, you’d be safer there.”

  Gail said, “It seems like we’re safer here—at least as long as he thinks we’ll help.” She turned to Sanders. “You were right. I should have lied.”

  “Sounds to me like you haven’t made up your minds yet,” said Treece. “Before you do, you might want to hear what I found out last night, or I should say this morning. I think I know—now hear m
e; I say I think—what ship is under Goliath.”

  “You found E.F.,” Sanders said.

  “No.” Treece pointed to the papers on the table. “These are just the beginning, but they’ve got a couple of clues in ’em. You remember we talked about that 1715 fleet?”

  “Sure.”

  “This may have something to do with that fleet. Try to follow.” He picked up a piece of paper. “The 1715 fleet was commanded by a general named Don Juan Esteban de Ubilla. He had wanted to set sail for Spain in late 1714, but there were delays, as there always were. Ships were late coming from the Far East, the Manila galleons that carried K’ang Hsi porcelain, ivory, jade, silk, spices, all manner of stuff. He waited in Vera Cruz for over a year for the cargo to arrive, be lugged across the jungle, and loaded onto his ships. He set off for Havana, where all fleets gathered for last-minute preparations. There were more delays in Havana: ships had to be repaired, more cargo loaded, manifests made up. The early spring of 1715 slipped by, then late spring, then early summer. Pretty soon, it was the middle of July. Ubilla must have been going berserk.”

  “Why?” Gail asked.

  “Hurricanes. There’s a West Indian jingle that goes, ‘June, too soon; July, stand by; August, come they must; September, remember; October, all over.’ A hurricane was the worst thing that could happen to one of those fleets. The ships were pigs. They couldn’t point closer than about ninety degrees to the wind, so in a big breeze they were helpless. They were always overloaded, wormy, and rotten. They leaked all day every day.

  “Anyway, while Ubilla was waiting, he was approached by a fellow named Daré, master of a vessel that had once been French but now flew the Spanish flag and carried a Spanish name—El Grifón. Daré wanted to join Ubilla’s fleet, and with bloody good reason: His manifest listed more than fifty thousand dollars in gold and silver, and if he sailed alone there wasn’t a chance he’d get by the Straits of Florida. Jamaican pirates would get him. They had spies everywhere, and they’d know exactly when he left Havana. But Ubilla said no. He was all hot about the delays and the weather, and he didn’t want the headache of shepherding another vessel; ten ships was plenty to keep tabs on. Daré pressed; he hinted that there was something special about his cargo, something other than what the manifest said. Ubilla wouldn’t budge.”