Peter Benchley - The Deep

That’s what I’ve got to keep looking for, the bloody provenance.”

“Why?”

“Like I told you before, folks are manufacturing stuff left and right and passing it off as Spanish. You have to be able to prove, really prove, where it came from.” Treece slapped the pile of papers. “So it’s back to the bloody documents.”

“E.f. is a name, right? It has to be.”

Treece looked at Sanders as if he had uttered a remark of monumental stupidity.

Sanders flushed. “I mean… it’s not like the ‘D.g.” on the coin, or the other stuff, “King of Spain and the Indies.” E.f. is a person.”

“Aye, it’s a name. And in here I have the names of all the Spanish nobility in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. It’s not much help, but it’s a start.”

“Can I help?”

“No. It takes a practiced eye to know what to look for.” Treece handed the crucifix to Sanders. “Here’s a task for you: Figure out how Mr. Jesus comes apart.”

Sanders held the crucifix close to his face.

There was a faint hairline between the Christ’s neck and shoulders, and Sanders tried to turn the head. It didn’t budge. “I don’t know where to begin.” He took a sip of scotch, then failed to disguise a yawn.

“Best thing you could do,” Treece said, “is go fall down for a couple of hours. Three-thirty now; we should leave the dock by six. Earlier, if the breeze hasn’t slacked off some.”

“You’re right.” Sanders finished his drink and went into the bedroom.

Gail was curled, like a baby, on her side of the bed, snoring thickly through clogged sinuses.

Sanders stepped out of his trousers and crawled into bed.

He considered putting his hand over Gail’s nose, to make her change position and, perhaps, stop snoring long enough for him to fall asleep. But suppose he woke her…

The next thing he knew, Treece was tapping him on the shoulder and saying, “Time to get wet again.”

The wind had shifted to the west and dropped to a pleasant breeze, and as they cruised along the south shore in the low sunlight, they could easily see the lines of reef.

Treece gave Sanders the wheel and said, “Just point her straight.” He went below, rooted around in some boxes, and reappeared with a thin rubber kitchen glove and some elastic bands.

“You can’t get that fist of yours in that glove,” Sanders said.

“No.” Treece put the glove on the gunwale, took a knife from a sheath tacked to the bulkhead, and sliced the fingers off the glove. He handed Gail the glove, and she held it for him as he worked his hand into it. He slipped an elastic band around his wrist, sealing the top of the glove, then put on a wet-suit jacket and a rubber diving glove.

“You’re diving?” Gail said.

“How does your head feel?”

“Fair to poor.”

“I’m diving. I don’t think I could suffer being topside with all you experts below, anyway. My imagination’d drive me crazy.” Treece flexed his fingers; he could not close his fist. “Little water won’t hurt. This’ll keep the stink away from the gobblers.”

The lights in the Orange Grove Club shone brightly in the twilight. The setting sun made the surf line glow pink-white, but the beach itself was in shadow cast by the high cliffs. The calm sea permitted Treece to bring the boat to within twenty yards of shore. The beach was empty.

“Where is he?” Sanders asked.

“He’ll be along.” Treece looked at his watch. “We’re five minutes early.”

They waited, rocking softly. Every couple of minutes, Treece gave the engine a brief burst of power, to keep the boat from being swept ashore. The sky blue was darkening quickly.

At 7:15, Treece said, “It’s not like him to be late.”

“Want me to go check?” said Sanders.

“Check what? If he’s late, he’s late.”

“Maybe the hotel people are giving him grief… about using the elevator or something.”

“All right.”

Sanders zipped up his wet-suit jacket and put on his flippers.

Gail said, “Be careful.”

“Of what? There’s nothing on that beach but crabs.”

“I don’t know, but… please.”

“I will.” Sanders put on his mask and fell into the water.

Five yards from shore, Sanders found that he could touch bottom. He took off his flippers and mask and trudged through the small waves. Standing on the beach, he looked left and right; he could see for at least a mile in both directions, and although the light was dim, he could tell that the beach was deserted. He dropped flippers and mask above the high-water mark and started for the cliffs, dark rock curtains looming into the indigo sky. Behind him, to his right, a sliver of yellow was rising over the horizon: a new moon. He heard the muffled thuds and hisses of the waves on the sand and the whisper of wind through the foliage atop the cliffs.

As he stepped into the shadows, he looked up; he could see the rectangular elevator cage outlined against the sky. He walked toward the base of the elevator pole, intending to summon the cage to the bottom of the cliff. He could not see the pole, so he used the cage above him as a guide.

In full stride, he tripped on something and tumbled to his knees.

He couldn’t see anything. Still on his knees, he turned and felt with his hand. The smell of ordure filled his nostrils, and for a moment he thought he had fallen over a defecating animal. Then his fingers touched flesh, cooling: an arm. He drew a quick, shocked breath, felt a rush of fear, and probed with his fingers.

He leaned closer and saw Coffin’s glazed, lifeless eyes staring at the sky. Drying blood trickled from his mouth.

Sanders put his fingers to the base of Coffin’s neck and felt for a pulse: nothing. Then he sprang to his feet and ran.

He stopped at the water’s edge, just long enough to pull his flippers on his feet, then dove over a small wave and swam frantically toward the boat.

“He’s dead!” Sanders gasped as Treece dragged him aboard. “They must’ve thrown him off the cliff.”

Treece squeezed Sanders’ wrist. “You’re sure?”

“Positive! No breathing, no pulse, no nothing.”

“Shitst”

Roughly, Treece cast Sanders’ hand away.

Sanders thought: That’s a strange elegy-shit. But what more was there to say? The expletive was eloquent enough, conveying anger and dismay.

He looked at Gail. Her whole body was shivering, and her breaths were short, almost sobs. She stared fixedly at the water. He went to her and put his arms around her. She did not react to his touch, did not recoil from the cold clamminess of his wet suit. He breathed on her hair and whispered, “Okay… okay.”

She looked up at him and said flatly, “I want to go home.”

“I know,” he said.

“I want to go home now. It can’t be worse than this.”

Sanders started to speak, but Treece, gazing at the cliffs, spoke first: “No goin’ home now. He’s ready to make his move.”

Sanders said, “What move?”

“I imagine he thinks his divers are ready; doesn’t need us any more. I thought we had a bit of time, but we have got no bloody time at all.” He slammed the gear lever all the way forward. The engine growled, the propeller cavitated, then bit into the sea, and the boat lunged toward the reefs.

When they had reached the reef and set the anchor, Treece said to Sanders, “Can she dive?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll…”

“I can dive,” said Gail. “I can’t be alone up here. I’ll get down all right, if I take my time.”

“I hate like hell to leave us empty topside,” said Treece. “Charlotte’s not too handy with a shotgun. But I don’t see we have a choice. He may not try anything else tonight, figure he shook us good enough for one day.”