What Lurks Beneath (22 page)

I
t was almost time.

Throughout her life, she had sought refuge in dens. They offered safety, for daytime rest and nighttime feeding. But this was a special den. It was one with the perfect currents to clear away sediments, and sweep away her own wastes, while providing an influx of fresh oxygen. A cavity that wasn't much more than twice her volume, and safe from threats. Here she had found comfort, but she hadn't been content with the opening to the space she had chosen. It needed to be smaller.

She had labored for several nights, cleaning out the lair, using the coral rocks and sand cluttering a side cavity to build protective piles in front of it. To close off most of the opening. She had even left the den several times to find the right materials, returning to add to the growing mound in front of it.

The location she had chosen, a narrow recess in the wall of the deep shaft, was ideal in most senses. It was of the perfect size, offered a steady flow of water, and was ideally situated for protection from threats. It was also much shallower than it should have been, but it had to be here, because she was no longer willing to return to the deep. She had been feeling the pain again, from the low vibrations that sometimes spread through the water, unescapable, hammering through her body. It was worse in the deep.

She slid her bulk free of the snug confines of the den, into the void above the dark shaft, and sank down toward her middens. She had located them on a ledge deep within the underwater hole, ensuring that waste and rubble she ejected could be neatly piled well below her lair. Some of the material in the middens had been added recently, the leftovers of her meals, or excavated from within the lair in shallower water.

Reaching the deep ledge, she felt for one of the mounds in the darkness and pulled herself on top of the pile of bones and shells. She released a thick string of feces into the water. It coiled like a serpent as it came to rest on the refuse pile. Small fish, too tiny to bother with, rushed in to feed on the fatty excrement and the cloud of particles around it, picking at a grinning skull poking out of the fresh coil.

She still had not found a viable mate. But that urge was now gone.

Her hunger was driven by the ache of unfertilized eggs now fully matured in her slab-like ovaries—two masses of granular flesh that occupied much of the space within her great body. She had not mated months ago, when the timing was ideal; not stored a male's sper-matophores inside her body, separate from the eggs, until the time was right to impregnate herself. But she was not aware of this. Only that she needed to maintain a den, and that she was still hungry.

Her hunger had been a fleeting thing, sometimes there, sometimes not. She had left the den only one of the past two nights, just before morning, to unsuccessfully pursue a shark and then, at dawn, to hunt down a wounded dolphin. She had managed to ensnare the weak animal and feed on it, her energy surging from its calorie-rich flesh.

She rose in the vertical shaft, the dim light from the night sky above revealing pale, muted walls as she passed. She returned to her den, locating it by the steady current of water emitted from the dark opening in the rock. She squeezed her huge body past the rubble at the entrance and stopped moving.

Soon restless, two of her arms extended from her curled body and began to work again on the pile of rubble, arranging the rocks, tucking a discarded steel drum in a gap in the barrier. Everything had to be perfect.

It was almost time.

T
he truck slowed, and Sturman hopped out of the bed, landing on the roadside beside the recently paved two-lane highway. He thanked the driver, tipping his hat, then shouldered his big duffle, and stepped into the shade of a stand of tall, scraggly trees on the corner. The driver drove off, between low walls of thick green vegetation on either side.

The midday subtropical sun pressed down on Sturman's head and shoulders, his damp T-shirt clinging to his back and chest. He still wore the jeans and shit-kickers he'd had on since departing California on a red-eye last night. The rutted drive running away from the highway looked to be a few hundred yards long, raised over swampy flats on either side. He wiped his brow and started down it toward the guesthouse.

He hadn't even met with Rabinowitz yet. He had come for her. But would she even be here? He figured it would be harder to turn him away in person than over the phone.

Sturman's boot heels scuffed worn wood as he crossed a low, flat bridge where a culvert connected the waters of the marsh. As he neared the end of the drive, he glimpsed the ocean through the vegetation close to shore, and felt its cooling breeze. The clean smell of salt replaced the fetid odor wafting up from the swamp beside the road.

He rounded a single curve in the drive, around some more of the strange-looking scraggly trees, and finally had a clear view of the rocky beach, the aquamarine waters, and the yellow one-level house. A crude sign hanging over the front porch said T
WIN
P
ALMS
G
UEST-HOUSE
.

He stepped onto the porch, took a deep breath, and knocked loudly on the front door.

He heard movement inside, and a short, shirtless older man swung open the door. He was tough looking, with a powerful build and close-cropped, graying hair. He had only one leg.

“Yeah? Whataya need?” the man said, squinting at him from a sunburned face.

“You must be Val's uncle.”

The man stepped through the door. He eyed Sturman's boots, his cowboy hat. He was more than a head shorter, but clearly not intimidated.

“Will Sturman,” the man said.

“Yes, sir. Are you Mack?”

Mack shoved a toothpick into his mouth. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

“I came to see her.”

“She know you're here?”

“No, sir. I reckon she doesn't.”

Mack scowled. “Came all the way down here, huh? But you didn't even tell her. You must be dumber than Valerie says.”

Sturman took his hat off. “Is she here?”

“No. She'll be back. Guess I'm supposed to invite you inside now. But let me tell you something first, son.” He stepped closer. “You hurt my niece, you're gonna answer to me. You hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

After a moment, Mack stepped back, still measuring Sturman with his eyes. He thrust out his right hand. “Alistair McCaffery.”

They shook hands. Sturman fought off a grin as Mack subtly tried to pull him off balance and continued to size him up. The man's grip was powerful, and he had incredible stability for a man with just one leg.

“You don't need to call me sir. I just go by Mack.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, Mack.”

“You hungry?”

“Yes, sir. Starving.”

“Mack. Not ‘sir,' goddammit. Fuckin' Navy brainwashed you.”

“Sorry, Mack.”

“Well, come on in, will ya? You're letting the bugs in.”

 

 

“You can't just show up unannounced, Will.”

“Already have.”

“I can see that,” Val said.

Sturman walked beside her on the remote, deserted beach ringing the bay north of the guesthouse. The evening was comfortably cool, the sun now settled low into clouds over the island.

He'd apparently arrived a few hours ago, when she and Eric were in Fresh Creek getting lunch and buying a final load of groceries after their morning dives, and had now changed into shorts and a fresh shirt. He still wore his old Western hat, his shirt unbuttoned and flapping in the breeze. Dressed the way he used to, on his boat back in San Diego.

“You know I was planning to come home early next week,” she said.

“I know. But I couldn't wait. You look good, Doc.”

She self-consciously rubbed her thighs. “Thanks. I've been running. And diving a lot. I've lost a few pounds.”

“You know I never cared about that. I just meant your hair, your tan. You got it back. You look good.”

She stopped walking. He took another step, and then turned back to her. “What's the matter?” he said.

“Why are you really here, Will?”

“I been worried about you,” he said.

She crossed her arms. “You? Worried about me? You can't keep trying to save me.”

“Why not?”

“You haven't even learned to save yourself.”

“I know.” He swung his sandals in the breeze, looking uncomfortable. “I guess I been worried about
us
.” He met her eyes.

She stared back at him, but said nothing. What could she say?

“I been clean,” he said.

“How long?”

“Six days.”

“Almost an entire week. Good for you.” She had to admit, he did look good. His strong jawline was peppered with a little stubble. And his gray-blue eyes were clear, bright. For the first time in months, she was seeing him without eyelids puffy from boozing late the night before.

She said, “What about your job at the aquarium? How long can you be off?”

“I told Harold I had some family business to take care of. But I may not have a job if I go back.”

“‘If'? What are you talking about?”

“I'll tell you some other time. Val, I'm not good with words. You know that. But I guess . . . I guess I came down here because I wanna give us another try. I mean I know I do.”

She felt an unexpected surge of emotion. “I don't know, Will. I don't know.”

“I'll stay clean. I mean it.”

She smiled, sadly. “I know you'll
try
. And I know how you feel about me, Will. But it's more than that. I'll never be good enough for you. There will always be Maria.”

She looked down at his left hand, where he still wore the gold band that served as a constant reminder of a woman she might never stack up to.

Her heart jumped. The ring wasn't there.

“Where's your ring?” she said.

“I won't be wearing it anymore. A friend finally convinced me to move on.” He took his hat off. “I don't know what to say, Val. I'm sorry. Just give me a chance.”

Looking at him, such a strong man, and yet so fragile, she suddenly felt like one of the merchant vessels Mack had told her about. Hundreds of years ago, privateers used to light fires along the island's shore, to lure unwary Spanish vessels onto the shallow reef, so they could plunder them the next day. The merchants were drawn to what looked like protective harbors. To safe haven. They ended up running aground, battering their vessels apart on hidden dangers.

She turned away from him, and felt tears welling up. She hated to cry in front of anyone.

He stepped up behind her, wrapped his arms around her shoulders. As he embraced her, she realized how much she'd missed him. She turned toward him and saw the fire in his eyes. And that familiar pain.

She knew it wasn't a good idea, but she kissed him anyway.

I
t was time.

Deep inside the cavern, her body began to tense, to bulge outward. To contract. A part of her knew it was not right, that they weren't ready, but they would not wait. They were coming. Now.

Another contraction, and she felt the first of them arrive.

She coiled an arm back, under her, reaching down to welcome it. Gently cradling the pale, teardrop-shaped egg, she brought it to her dominant eye in the near darkness, feeling a sort of elation. The feeling was quickly overtaken by another, more painful surge as the muscles in her mantle contracted again.

After the next few came, the others began to arrive very quickly, spurting into the water in rapid succession, bursting forth in twos and threes in the swirling darkness beneath her.

When she had entered the den the previous night, she had completed construction of the mound of rubble at its entrance, topping it off with the twisted metal remains of a small boat hull, and then settled herself inside. She knew she would not be leaving again, ever. So she had positioned herself comfortably, her eyes facing toward the den's opening, and waited for many hours.

Now, as her body tensed and bulged, contracting again and again, her young finally came forth into the cavern. Thousands of them. Whitish secretions swirled around the cavern, clouding the water.

Even before the contractions first began to subside, her doting arms began to pluck each group of eggs from where they drifted near the bottom or spun through the dark water beside her, and carefully began to braid them together. Using the stringy, sticky tissue trailing off the end of each, the slender arm tips deftly twisted them into neat clusters, then in turn wove these into long bunches, organizing them so that none of her young would be lost, none would be neglected. So all would be safe.

She lined them up in neat rows on the ceiling of the cavern, affixing them to the rough surface using their own sticky secretions.

As the final cluster emerged, she closed her eyes in the darkness, the last of her energy slipping away from her, and placed it by the others clinging to the cavern above and behind her. She caressed the unhatched young, knowing she must protect them. Guard them vigilantly from predation, groom them of parasites, keep them clean and oxygenated until they hatched many months from now. Only then would she allow herself to die.

And so here, until the end, she knew she must remain.

And yet, still nagging at her beneath the fatigue and the urge to watch over her brood, remained another compulsion, a craving that even now would not go away.