Peter Benchley: The Deep

“How do you get out of the way?”

Treece held up the egg timer. “That’s what this is for. I’m going to dive down, wire the charge to the timer, and set it for maybe five minutes.

That’ll give me time to scoot to the surface and get the hell out of there. Don’t want to be closer than a few hundred yards when she goes off. The ammunition would turn any ship nearby into an instant wreck.”

Gail said, “When are you going to do this?”

“Tomorrow morning, after we’ve had a last look-around.

Then we’ll come back and smash the ampules we’ve got.” Treece finished wiring the charge and stood up. “I’m going to nip down to Kevin’s and borrow a gun or two. I’ll leave Charlotte here.

She’ll let you know if there are any Peeping Toms about.”

The dog barked twice and jumped onto the window sill.

Treece looked out the window. “Nothing.” He patted the dog’s head. “Getting goosy, just like…” Then he heard something, cocked his head, and listened. “Sonofabitch.”

“What is it?” Sanders asked.

“There’s a boat down there.”

Treece opened a drawer and rummaged through a tangle of kitchen knives. He took out a long, thin-bladed filleting knife and passed it to Sanders. “Remember what I told you; this thing’ll skin an alligator.” He removed a cleaver from a rack on the wall and handed it to Gail.

She recoiled, refusing to take it. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Just have it.” He put it in her hand. “Got no esteem for yourself. You showed what you can do.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Come along.” He selected a carving knife for himself—the cutting edge of the blade worn into a crescent by countless honings—and shut the drawer. Then he closed the window. “Stay in the house, Charlotte. Don’t need you raising an untimely ruckus.” On his way to the kitchen door, Treece stopped at a cabinet and found a waterproof flashlight.

They went out into the empty yard. The moonlight shone on the slick leaves of the bushes at the edge of the cliff. Treece motioned for David and Gail to stay low, and they ran, crouching, to the top of the path leading to the dock.

Looking down, they could see a boat at the mouth of the cove, barely moving. They heard a few muted clanks above the far-off drum sounds.

“Is it Cloche?” Gail whispered.

“Must be, but I’m damned if I know how he found out about the cave. You stay up here; keep in the shadows. We’ll go have a look. Could be they’re just snooping.”

Treece tucked the flashlight in the belt of his wet-suit pants and told Sanders to follow. They started down the path.

The high foliage shaded the path into complete darkness. Twice Sanders stumbled into bushes, heard Treece’s warning, “Sssshhhhh!” Then he found he could follow Treece by looking at the tops of the bushes: as Treece passed below and brushed a branch, the upper leaves shimmered in the moonlight.

A few feet from the bottom of the path, Treece stopped and waited for Sanders. The movement on the boat was clearly audible, and fighting that and the sound of the horns above, Treece had to put his lips to Sanders” ear to be heard.

“Stay here. I’m going out along the dock, see what’s up.” He touched the knife in Sanders’ hand.

“Comfortable with that?”

Sanders nodded.

Treece stepped to the end of the path and, with animal stealth, crept along the narrow space between the dock and the bushes.

Sanders rested on one knee, clutching the knife.

He felt all the symptoms of fear, but they were soothed by a sense of confidence in Treece. Like a young child on an expedition with his older brother, he felt excited-scared but comforted by the belief that he could take his cues from Treece.

So he was doubly surprised when he felt a thick, muscular arm slam into his throat, a hand push his head forward, cutting off his breathing, and a great weight knock him to the ground and blanket him with slippery, sweaty flesh.

He tried to scream, but the pressure against his throat reduced the scream to a gurgle. He still held the knife-blade pointing upward, as Treece had shown him-and he jabbed it at the flesh, but a knee jammed his wrist into the ground. His left arm was pinned to his side by the body on top of him.

He was helpless.

He relaxed his body, hoping desperately-through a film of waning consciousness-that he could convince his attacker that he was dead. But when the man felt muscle resistance ease, he tightened his grip.

Then, as suddenly as the weight had fallen on him, it left him. He was free. He drew a painful, rattling breath.

He heard Treece’s voice whisper, with bitterness and feral ferocity unlike anything he had ever heard, the single word “Kevin!”

Sanders raised himself on one elbow and looked.

Kevin lay on his back, Treece kneeling on his chest and pulling his hair so his head tilted at a cockeyed angle. With his other hand, Treece held the carving knife at Kevin’s throat. Kevin’s legs kicked, then fell to the dirt.

“You told him!” Treece whispered. “Why?”

Kevin said nothing.

“Why? For money?” Treece’s voice was no longer angry; it was choked with the sorrow of betrayal. “For money?”

Still Kevin was silent.

In the reflections of moonlight off the water, Sanders could see their eyes: Kevin’s flat and expressionless, looking through Treece with a kind of blank resignation; Treece’s shiny, enraged, unbelieving.

“Oh, you sorry, sorry bugger,” Treece said, and when the last whispered word had faded, he punched the point

of the knife into Kevin’s throat and drew the blade quickly across the neck. There was a black line of blood, a foam of bubbles, and a wet, wheezing sigh. Treece hung his head and closed his eyes.

A beam of light swept across the cove toward them, and Sanders heard Cloche’s voice call, “Kevin?”

Sanders whispered, “Treece?”

Treece did not answer.

“Treece!”

The light moved closer, and Sanders knew that in a few seconds it would illuminate half of Treece’s back. He rose to his knees and lunged at Treece, hitting him with his shoulder and knocking him to the ground. The light swept over them, stopped, and moved back to the water.

“Kevin?” Cloche called again. “Idiot!”

Lying on the ground, with Sanders next to him, Treece gradually shook off his stupor. “All right,” he said. “All right. At least now we know.”

He crawled on his stomach to the end of the path, looked at Cloche’s boat, and returned to Sanders. “Looks like there’s two or three divers, plus a couple fellas they’ll leave on the boat. We’ll wait till the divers are overboard, then try to get to Corsair and throw on tanks and go down.”

“The tanks have bad air.”

“Not all. I only filled two that night. The others were already full. There should be four good ones aboard.”

“Then what?”

“We’ll see how many men there are and how they’re working. If they’re working two at a time in the cave, with hand lights, we’ve a chance to pick ’em off.

Odds are, the divers won’t be armed. They’ll have their hands full with the glass.”

“Pick them off?” Sanders said. “Why?”

“To stop ’em before they get the ampules. We can’t get the glass up with those yahoos around, and I’m damned if I’m about to let Cloche have what’s down there.”

“What do we do? Stab them?”

“Only if you have to. Try to grab the regulator hose and cut it and get the hell out of his way. A man with a sudden-cut air hose is a bloody menace; he’ll grab a baby’s mouthpiece.”

“But if we cut their air hoses, they’ll just come up; they’ll be waiting for us on the surface.”