Jonathon King - Acts of Nature

"OK. Where's this hatch?" The man's voice echoed up from the porthole.

"West side. In between the last two stringers," I said. There was more movement on the surface, expanding arcs of water like rings moving away from the plunk of a rock.

"Look. Tell me your name, friend. Let's make this easier," the voice said, loud now as if he was already in the room, his tone booming from the space between water and wood like it was coming from a wet basement.

"Freeman," I said. "Max Freeman."

"You're a cop?"

"No. Private investigator working with a cop," I said, maybe giving too much away if they were drug hunters following a rumor.

"OK, Freeman."

Looking down through the circular hatch at an angle, I caught a glimpse of fabric.

"Here's my ID."

I sneaked another look. He only showed a forearm and hand, holding a wallet. I noted it was his left hand. Most people are righties. His gun hand was hidden.

"Toss it up," I said.

He underhanded it high but I did not follow its trajectory and instead watched the circle of water. The man's face, ruddy, middle-aged, slipped into the space and we made eye contact. If I'd had a gun I would have had the muzzle over the edge pointing down. I hoped that didn't give him courage.

I moved around in a half circle and picked up the wallet: Edward Christopher Harmon. Florida private investigator. The photo was similar enough to the glimpse I'd just had. The lie about DEA didn't surprise me. Admitting it did.

"So now we're on the same field," Harmon said from below. "Two PIs doing a job. You yours. Me mine."

"It doesn't exactly make us brothers, Harmon," I said. "What's your job and what the hell happened out there?"

I heard him slosh. But I'd been down there myself. There was no way to suddenly leap up off that mucky bottom. I was tall enough to reach up and just get my fingers over the edges. Unless he was seven feet, he wasn't coming up until I let him.

"Your friends, I'm afraid, got a little trigger happy. Probably jumpy after that boy came screaming around the corner with half of his hand gone. I'll assume that was your work, Freeman. Maybe he wasn't your friend?"

"Never was," I said.

"Won't ever be now," Harmon said.

"Since we're assuming, let me take my turn," I said. "Everybody out there is dead. Or everyone except your team?"

"My partner got his face blown off. He's gone," Harmon said and the tone was actually somber, like it meant something to him. "It's just you and me, Freeman. Or is your cop alive?"

I looked up at Sherry, concentrated on her chest, thought I could see it rise and fall, but for a second I didn't think I could truthfully answer him.

"What's your job?" I said instead and again I heard him, or something, slosh in the water.

"My company owns this research facility. They sent me out to secure it after the hurricane, make sure it was still standing."

"It's illegal as hell to have a drilling field in this part of the Glades," I said. You didn't have to be an environmentalist to know that spoiling the Glades and threatening the water supply was a raw nerve in Florida. The profiteers would get a foothold any way they could. The computer systems behind me, the plotting desk, the seismic charts, the security lock on the door. No other explanation made sense.

"No one's drilling that I know of, Freeman. You see a drill up there? Fucking thing would have to be six stories high on a metal platform. You know anything about oil drilling?"

"Yeah," I said. "You set some charges down in the substrata first, doesn't take a big drilling operation. Then you fire off explosions that no one hears or sees and you measure the underground reaction, sometimes with lasers and the sensitive kinds of computerized equipment you've got up here in your little den, Harmon. And that's illegal too."

This time the voice took a long break. Making a decision. Or making me think he was making a decision.

"OK. OK, Freeman. We can debate all day. It's a fucking job for me and it ain't worth this much shit. My partner's dead. All the assholes who started firing on us when we came to check out a company project are dead. I have no knowledge of the legal status of this place. But I do have a satellite phone and I'm gonna call my pilot, have him do a pickup and I'm outa here.

"You wanna go with me or sit up there with your cop friend, who I'm assuming is a corpse by now or he would have said something. What I'm not going to do is stand here in this fucking soup any longer."

This time I was the one hesitating. This guy might be our last chance. He leaves, Sherry dies. I'm certain of it. There's not much of a choice left.

"Toss up the guns," I said. "I'll help you load your friend's body."

This time there's no discussion.

"Stand away so you don't think I'm trying to shoot you," he said, and an over-under shotgun came up, stock first, and he pushed it hard enough for the gun to clear the opening and clack onto the floor. I dragged it away. Then an MK pistol flipped up out of the space and clattered to the floor.

"That's what I got," Harmon said.

This time when I peered over the edge he was standing in full view, empty palms raised, fingers spread wide.

"Give me a hand," he said.

I braced myself on either side of the porthole and reached down. He locked on with a grip on each of my wrists and I did the same. It was an old climber's technique I learned long ago and it surprised me that he knew it.

"OK," he said and I yanked him up and over the edge of the hatch. While he was still on all fours I picked up the Mk23 and held it loosely in one hand. He stood and did not seem to care that I was now armed. He was a man of medium build, probably in his early fifties but in good shape. His grayish hair was matted from the moisture, his clothes soaking wet. He first looked me in the face, seemed to study my eyes until he'd made some kind of assessment, and then scanned the rest of the room, nodding, like it was familiar and he was pleased that everything appeared to be in shape. He stopped when he sighted the cot and Sherry behind me.

"How's your officer friend, if she is indeed an officer?" he said.

"She needs help," I said.

"Then it's a good thing we made a deal."

"Did we?"

He refocused on my eyes. It is an old cop trick that was probably taken from the art of magicians. Most people, even shy people and especially criminal people, will try to be brave and look you in the eye when you first start talking to them. And if you are engaging, with a smile and a purpose, you can hold their attention for the second it takes to do the sleight of hand you need to do.

"Actually, I'm going to have to take a little time here to do some documenting. Simple tasks like pulling some computer memories and such," he said, turning just slightly to his right, but with his feet still planted, a solid foundation. His move might have even worked if his jacket had not been so wet, the heft of the soaked fabric pulled just hard enough to expose a hard edge in his right pocket, and when I saw his shoulder raise to slip his hand inside I shot him.

The round hit him in the hip and must have made solid contact with bone because he spun, just a quarter turn, but when he stepped back to gain his balance, he put his foot directly into the hole of the open space of the escape hatch and went down. Trying quickly to straddle the void, he landed with one leg hanging and the other spread out at floor level. His rib cage and right underarm scraped hard against the inside edge of the hatch and then came to a hard halt. He was wedged in the hole, looking suddenly like a human pair of scissors, doing a painful split. He was awkwardly stuck; his right arm pinned and left one flailing. I changed position and circled. I had to give the guy credit. He hadn't cried out, though I knew it had to hurt, both the bullet into bone and the fall. I looked down at him and his lips were pressed tight into a hard line. Might have been pissed, might have been pain. The look said either. Through the space between his back and one edge, I could look down and see the lump in his pocket was still there, hanging heavily in his pocket and impossible for him to reach.