Benchley, Peter (30 page)

Sanders paused briefly, then said, “Okay.”

They heard splashes and fragments of conversation.

Someone said, “Where’s Kevin at?” and Cloche replied, “Drunk, I suppose. He is of no consequence now; he gave us full value.”

A few more splashes, then silence.

Treece waited for ten or fifteen seconds, then crept out into the open. Cloche’s boat floated twenty yards out in the cove, off

Corsair’s

stern, so

Corsair

protected them from view as they moved along the dock. They slipped into the cockpit and lay on the deck.

“Fins, mask, and tank,” Treece whispered.

“Don’t fool with weights. They’ll make too much noise.”

The necks of the steel air tanks gleamed in the moonlight, and Sanders saw that it would be impossible to pull the tanks out of the rack without being seen.

“Old Indian trick,” Treece said, removing a two-pound lead weight from a nylon belt. He reached to the transom and uncleated the stern line, letting the stern swing a few feet away from the dock, then recleated the line. “When you hear the splash, grab a tank and go over the side between the boat and the dock. I’ll be right along.” He threw the weight as hard as he could-a straight-arm arc that used the muscles of the shoulder, not the arm-and the weight cleared the bridge of the other boat by several feet and splashed into the water beyond.

Sanders rose, removed a tank from the rack, held it overboard, and slid into the water after it, aware of the sounds of footsteps and voices and the cocking of a rifle. Treece joined him. They checked each other’s tanks, making sure the air valves were turned on, and the air was good. “Hold my hand till we get to the bottom,” Treece said. “We’ll stay there for a minute and have a look-see. Their light’ll tell us where they are.”

Hand in hand, they sank below the surface and kicked to the bottom.

Kneeling in the bushes at the top of the hill, Gail heard the splash and the voices. She got to her feet in a stooped stance, ducked as a beam of light swept toward her, then rose again and looked down, half-expecting, dreading, to hear a gunshot.

But there was nothing, only the incessant taxi horns. Holding the cleaver-scared of it but glad of it, as she had been of the shotgun-she started down the path.

Near the bottom of the path, with her hands in front of her like a blind person in a strange room, she stepped on one of Kevin’s legs. Shocked, she lurched backward and fell into the bushes, cracking branches as she fell.

She heard a voice: “Kevin?”

She held her breath.

“Go over there and look around.”

A splash; sounds of a man swimming.

She exhaled and inhaled, and her nostrils filled with the stench of feces. Terrified, she extricated herself from the bushes and scrambled up the hill.

On the bottom of the cove, Sanders and Treece knelt together, still holding hands. Forty or fifty feet away, the cave was as visible as a proscenium stage in a dark theater, illuminated not by hand-held lights but by huge floodlights. As they watched, a diver swam out of the cave and turned on a flashlight. He carried a mesh bag full of ampules. Two other divers passed him, heading for the

cave, switching off their flashlights as they entered the pool of light.

Treece tugged at Sanders” hand, and they kicked toward the cave. When they were within ten feet of the entrance, just outside the range of the floodlights, Treece let go of Sanders’ hand and gently pushed him against the face of the cliff, signaling for him to wait.

Treece dropped to his stomach and pulled himself along the sand until he could look inside the cave.

Then he withdrew from the light. He flicked on his flashlight, located Sanders, and swam to him.

Treece held the flashlight in his left hand and shined it on his right, pointing to Sanders, then to the near side of the cave, then to himself, then-in an arching motion-to the far side of the cave. Then he shined the light on Sanders’ face, to see if he understood.

He did: he was to position himself at one side of the entrance, Treece at the other.

They flattened themselves against the cliff and waited. In the shimmering light, Sanders caught an occasional glimpse of Treece’s face, of the shining knife blade in his hand.

Moving water disturbed sand at the entrance to the cave: something was coming out. Sanders saw Treece’s knife rise and hold steady.

The man on Treece’s side came out first, a few feet ahead of his companion. His head appeared, looking down at the sand, then his shoulders.

Treece jumped him: a flash of red-brown skin, an explosion of bubbles, a fist grabbing the man’s air hose and

wrenching the mouthpiece from his mouth, drawing the hose taut, the knife slicing easily through the rubber tube.

The head of the second man emerged from the cave.

Sanders raised his knife.

The man looked up and saw Sanders. His eyes widened, hands flew to his head as Sanders leaped.

The man knocked Sanders’ knife hand away and reached for Sanders’ mask.

Sanders dodged. His shoulder hit the man’s chest, and they tumbled to the bottom, clawing at each other.

They rolled along the bottom, punching and kicking, each trying to keep his head away from the other’s grasp. Sanders breathed in spurts, holding his breath after each inhalation, fearful of having his hose cut when his lungs were empty.

They were several yards inside the cave now, floating and bumping on the sand in a grotesque waltz: the man held Sanders’ right wrist, keeping the knife away from his neck. Sanders’ left arm was wrapped around the man’s side, pinning his right arm.

Sanders could not stab the man, could not cut his air hose; he was waiting for Treece. Frantically, he looked to the mouth of the cave, expecting to see Treece swimming toward him. Instead, Treece was poised in a fighter’s crouch, facing out of the cave, awaiting the two flashlights that moved swiftly toward him.

The man’s right arm wiggled free. His hand inched upward and slammed into Sanders’ groin, fingers clawing at his balls. Sanders kicked upward with his left leg, deflecting the hand. Then he saw the hole in the cave wall, a dark tunnel above a pile of stones.

He touched a foot to the bottom and pushed off, danc-ing the man toward the wall. The man’s heels hit a rock, and he tripped, but he did not release Sanders’ wrist. Sanders leaned against him, forcing him onto the wall, butting him to make him jerk his head back toward the hole.

The man’s head was a few inches below the hole.

Sanders’ foot found purchase on a rock, and he shoved again, driving the man up, exposing the black flesh and puffed arteries.

The pig eyes-beads in the slimy green head-showed in the hole, the mouth waving hungrily, half open.

The moray struck, needle teeth fastening on the man’s neck, throat convulsing as it pulled back toward the hole. Blood billowed out the sides of the moray’s mouth.

The man’s mouth opened, releasing his mouthpiece, and roared a noisy shriek of panic.

Their arms parted. Sanders wondered if he should stab the man, to make sure, but there was no need: his mouthpiece floated behind his head. Half his throat was engulfed in the moray’s mouth, and already his flails were weaker, his eyes dimmer.

Sanders turned back to the entrance of the cave.

Treece was still crouched, the two flashlights closer to him but not moving. He feinted toward them, and they backed away.

Sanders knew Treece was waiting for him. If Treece had wanted to escape, he could have swum off into the darkness. The lights would soon have lost him, and even if the men could have kept track of him, they could not hope to catch him underwater.

The flashlights flicked off; the figures faded into the darkness. Treece turned on his light and swept the area in

front of the cave. Sanders tapped him on the shoulder to let him know he was there. Treece pointed to the surface and turned off his light.

Rising through the glow cast by the floodlights in the cave, Sanders felt naked. He knew Cloche’s men could see him. He kicked hard, reaching for darkness.

Something rammed his back. Legs wrapped around his middle; his head was pulled back. He sucked on the mouthpiece and breathed water: his regulator hose had been cut. The legs released him.

The salt water made him gag. He clamped his teeth together and forced himself to exhale, fighting the physical impulse to gasp for air.

He reached the surface, coughed, and drew a ragged breath. A light shone on his face. He threw his head to the right and dove underwater as a bullet slapped the surface, ricocheted, and struck the stone cliff. Holding his breath a few feet below the surface, he saw the beam of light playing across the water. It moved to the left, so he swam to the right.

His hands touched the cliff face and, slowly, he inched upward.

They had lost him; the light was sweeping the surface several yards to his left. It started back toward him. He ducked until it had passed, then rose again to breathe. He heard Cloche’s voice.

“Treece!” No answer. “We are at an

impasse, Treece. You cannot stop us; we are too many. Leave while you can. We will take no more than is in the cave, you have my word. A fair compromise.” No answer.

Sanders felt something touch his foot. He jerked his leg

upward and drew a breath, expecting to be dragged beneath the surface, determined to struggle, but fearfully, hopelessly convinced that he lacked the strength to survive.

Treece’s head broke the surface next to his.

“Chuck your tank,” Treece whispered, unsnapping his own harness and letting his tank sink to the bottom.

Cloche called twice more, but Treece didn’t reply. He led Sanders toward shore, swimming a silent breast stroke.

“Die, then!” Cloche said angrily.

They reached the end of the dock, crawled out of the water, and when they heard Cloche order his divers to come aboard, dashed for the path.

Gail was waiting for them at the top of the hill.

“What…”

Treece ran past her toward the house. “Come on!”

In the kitchen, Treece examined the shape charge.

He checked the wires, then taped the magnet to the side of the bottle.

“Did you hear what Cloche said?” Sanders asked.

“About the compromise?”

“Aye. Lying bugger. He’ll go for the lot; bet on it. But if we’re lucky, we’ll beat him to it. There’s the tank and a regulator out by the compressor. Get “em for me. And one of the hand lights, too, while you’re there.”

Sanders hurried out the kitchen door, and Gail said to Treece, “Where are we going?”

“Orange Grove. We’ll take Kevin’s

car.” Treece picked the shape charge off the table and held it in both hands.

“You’re going to plant that thing tonight?”

“No choice, not if we want to get rid of the ampules before Cloche goes for them.” He saw Sanders returning from the compressor shed and said, “Let’s go. If we don’t get there first, it’s all down the drain.”

As they hurried along the path, Sanders said, “What about the rest of the jewels?”

“If there’s anything left down there … well, maybe Philip’s ghost can have a romp with the good duchess. We can’t take a chance on the drugs.”

The dog followed them to the gate, but Treece stopped her there and ordered her to stay.

They heard the engine of Cloche’s boat chug to life and turn southwest toward Orange Grove.

Treece broke into a

run.

He drove the Hillman as fast as it would go, leaning his body against the turns in the narrow road, cursing when the small engine faltered on steep hills. Sanders sat beside Treece, Gail in the back seat, steadying the shape charge with her hand.

On a long South Road straightaway the speedometer nudged seventy. Bracing himself against the dashboard, his feet pressed against imaginary brake pedals, Sanders said, “Suppose a cop stops you.”

“Any police who values his life will not stop me tonight.” Treece did not speak again until he had parked the car in the Orange Grove lot and was running toward the stairs that led to the beach.

“You run an outboard?” he said then.

“Sure,” Sanders said.

“Good. I need a chauffeur.”

The moon was high, and as they ran down the stone stairs, they could see the white hulls of the Boston Whalers on their dollies.

Treece looked out to sea, to the left, at the white lines of reef. “Light’s good. We’ll see him coming.” He handed Gail the shape charge, grabbed the painter of the nearest Whaler, spun the dolly around, and, alone, dragged the boat into the water. Then he took the charge from Gail and said, “Stay here.”

“No.”

“Aye, you’ll stay here.”

“I will not!”

Her defiance surprised him. “It’ll be hairy out there, and I don’t want you around.”

“It’s my decision. It’s my life, and I’m going.” She knew she was being unreasonable, but she didn’t care. She could not stay on the beach, a helpless observer.

Treece took her by the arm and looked into her eyes.

“I have killed one woman,” he said flatly.

“I’ll not be responsible for killing another.”

Gail glared back at him and, in anger, without thinking, said, “I am not your wife!”

Treece relaxed his grip. “No, but …”

He seemed embarrassed.

Gail touched his hand. “You said it yourself. I’m here.

I’m me. Protecting me won’t do a thing for her.”

Treece said to Sanders, “Get in the boat.” He helped Gail into the boat after Sanders, walked the boat into

water deep enough for the propeller shaft, and climbed aboard.

They went over the reefs, to a spot above the remains of

Goliath.

There they let the boat wallow.

Treece rigged the scuba tank, put it on his back, and sat on the starboard gunwale, resting the shape charge against his thighs. The hand light hung from a thong on his wrist. “I’ll go rig the charge,”

he said. “Be right back. Then, soon’s we see him coming, I’ll nip over again and set the timer.”

“Okay,” said Sanders.

“Now … an order. If anything happens, get the hell out of here in a hurry. Don’t play Boy Scout.”