Peter Benchley - The Deep

“This’d be a hell of a place to jump somebody,” Sanders said, walking with his arms before his face to ward off slapping branches.

“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 liking, Jamaican. Not Cloche.

“Well…” Sanders stalled. “N…”

“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.

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, “dis… 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.”