Peter Benchley - The Deep

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.”

Sanders had no intention of leaving Treece, but he did not reply.

Treece rolled off the gunwale, turned on the light, and swam for the bottom.

Moments later, Sanders saw the first splash-sparkling white eruptions of water over the bow of a boat that was moving full-speed along the outer reef. “Look!” he said, pointing.

Gail saw the boat, then looked overboard.

Treece’s light was steady on the bottom. “How long will it take him to rig that thing?”