Nightmare Country (24 page)

“There she is, Doc. To your right.” This was the balding man in the middle, who had a glass in his hand. An angry scar ran from his chin down his neck and under his shirt. “Watch out, Bodecker, here she comes.”

Ralph Weicherding was beginning to wonder if he should pull a camera out of his gear bag when the man called Bodecker, who was on the end closest to the water, gave a yell like an attacking Comanche and leaped into the air.

“I got her. She's mine!” Beer spewed from the bottle in his hand as he landed on his chest and stomach in the sand and a little tan dog dodged the fingertips of his other hand. One of those village mongrels Ralph saw all over Latin America, this one was plumper than most. It had its ears laid back and wore a look of hysterical terror. Whoever said animal faces were incapable of expression had never seen one so small being chased by four big drunks.

Because of heat and hunger, these dogs were usually sluggish, but this one scampered, dashed, dodged, and swerved like a seasoned football player. Suddenly it broke and headed straight for Ralph, the bronzed guy in the swim trunks right behind. Ralph dropped his bags, and before the panicked animal realized its mistake, he had it by a front leg, and before it could bite him, its pursuer had a hand ringing its muzzle.

“Orderlies!” the pursuer yelled to the others and to Ralph. “Thanks.”

There were scabs and scars on his arms and chest, yellowing bruises. It took the two of them to hold the struggling dog until the others got there. They released it to the three helpers, and it still almost got away.

“What'd you do, Doc, grease her?”

“God damn, Doc, you're gonna pick every last flea off me.”

“You did promise, Mr. Alexander, to discuss the matter I mentioned if I helped you catch this … this creature.”

Mr. Alexander swept them all a formal bow, so low Ralph could see abrasions on his back too. When he came up, he held a pair of tiny scissors like the ones Ralph carried in his suitcase to cut thread if he had to sew on a button. Alexander held them high, and they returned the sun's rays. His smile was too wide and rather abandoned.

“Hey, you're not really going to cut that dog?” Ralph asked. “That's kind of … sick, isn't it?”

“Belly up, and hold her still,” Alexander ordered his orderlies, and snipped and tugged out tiny threads in the lower end of the dog's stomach.

Bodecker grinned at Ralph and winked. “Stitches. She's the Doc's patient, you know.”

They flipped the animal over, and she leaped from their grasp before they could set her down. She was away across the beach like a tan streak.

“If you're smart, you'll hide in the jungle for a coupla years,” the balding man yelled after her. “This man's crazy.”

The crazy man blew on the end of the tiny scissors. He looked very smug.

“You, Doc, are basically a nurturer,” Bodecker said with that serious authority that can be brought off only by the inebriated. “You just think you're a cold asshole.”

III

Something in the Air

24

Dixie Grosswyler had become more aware of her dreams since she'd come to Mayan Cay, but had only lately begun to find them disturbing, interfering with her rest, becoming almost more real than her daytime world.

She'd been married and divorced twice before she was thirty. The last husband had moved her down here so they could manage the Mayapan. Two years later he took off with a lovely guest and divorced Dixie by mail. She'd stayed on, managing the hotel for a Florida-based company, determined to make enough money to return to Texas and live in a state of financial independence.

Dixie would play around with men, but never again would she trust one. She earned an annual salary plus a commission for every increment of profit. The Mayapan ran full for about four months—when it was cold and nasty in the States. The occupancy rate was hit-and-miss the rest of the year. Her nest egg wasn't keeping up with inflation.

She dreamed now of walking along a scarred hillside she'd dreamt of before, and falling into a hole like Alice descending to Wonderland. Instead of finding a fantastical new world, she'd found a labyrinth of dark tunnels, and the harder she looked for a way out, the more panicky she became, and grew claustrophobic to the point of fearing she'd suffocate.

Dixie woke, surprised to find her bed unrumpled after the agony of her struggles and herself unable to stay in the enclosure even of familiar walls with the memory of them. She slipped on sandals and a shapeless muumuu and hurried through the office and out to the veranda. She sucked in night air and shivered with reaction rather than chill. Spits of adrenaline still set fire to her nerve endings.

Folding her arms against her middle, she paced the veranda from end to end, her sandals crunching coral sand that had encroached on black-and-white squares of paving tile. Lizards scuttled behind potted plants. The moon wasn't half-full and sat low in the sky. Night shadow darkened all but a faintly luminous sea.

Dixie leaned against a supporting post and hugged herself tighter. She had to get more sleep. Every night this happened it made her increasingly nervous and depressed. And that was bad for business.

The form of an obviously naked man glided along the water's edge, outlined by the subtle light of the water. Dixie blinked. Only two men of that height on the island, Thad Alexander and Roudan Perdomo. This man was white.

My God, what's he up to now?
Grabbing a beach towel left on a lounge chair, Dixie rushed toward the dock. He'd reached the end of it and stood looking out over the water. Then he turned sideways, raised his arms, and spoke silently to the air, as if rehearsing for a play and pretending a fellow actor was at hand.

“Thad? Who are you talking to? And what are you doing out stark naked?” She wrapped the towel around him and tucked it in at the waist. “Not all my guests can handle this kind of thing, fella, and none of the locals. Thad?”

He just stared into space as if there was someone there. His eyes twitched like a dog's would when dreaming. But Thad's eyes were open.

“Hey, zombie, this is old Dixie talking. Where are you? Jesus, you're not asleep?” She shook his arm, and he jerked. His skin felt hot.

“What are you doing in my dream?” His voice was thick with sleep.

“Dream? Everybody in this place dreams. At least the rest of us don't go around without clothes on.”

Dreams were more often a topic of conversation on Mayan Cay than anywhere else she'd lived. She did remember hearing of Stefano catching Thad's dad out sleepwalking, and she told him of it, guiding him down the dock. He was wobbly, and she wondered if it had been a mistake to wake him so suddenly. They talked of dreams as they walked along the beach, and he began to shiver. His skin felt chilled now under her hand.

“Isn't it funny you weren't cold till you woke up?” She put an arm around him. “I don't remember so much talk of dreaming when I first came to Mayan Cay. Maybe I wasn't looking for it. I didn't have so many myself.”

“Hey, My Lady of the Rum Belly, how were the pickin's tonight?”

The little bitch Thad had performed drunken surgery on approached along the beach but stopped at his voice. It gave a startled yip and ran off.

“That's gratitude. After all you've done.” Dixie realized she was jealous of the dog.

“Far as she's concerned, all I've done is cause her pain.”

“You really like animals, huh? I mean, besides the fact they provide you with a living?”

“That animal is a fellow creature who has gotten the short end of the stick in this world.”

“You know, you were almost sane when you came to this island?” They'd reached the door of Edward P. Alexander III's house. Dixie snuggled closer to his son. “Offer another fellow creature a drink?”

It was too dark to see his expression, but his hesitation revealed they both knew what she was asking for. He relaxed against her, and a light line opened in his face as he smiled. “Sure, why not?”

Later, Dixie wondered who he was pretending she was as their hands explored the other's body and she felt the rough and healing places from his day of horror on the Metnál. Perhaps he thought of the ex-Mrs. Thad Alexander.

No matter. Dixie knew he'd be a part of her fantasy life for a long time, even if he never touched her again.

25

With the sutures removed from his patient, Thad consented to talk to Geoffrey Hindsly. He told him of the
Ambergris
and his father's crazy notions about ancient machinery running amok. He didn't expect Hindsly to believe any of it.

The next day he went out with Eliseo, Don Bodecker, and the Englishman to set a marker buoy where the “thing” had risen above the water. Harry refused to go. No one bothered Martha with the plan. All they had to do was to locate the submarine and they'd know they were in the right place. The U.S. Navy would fly in a group of specialists—oceanographers—to investigate the waters marked by the buoy.

Don Bodecker was grim. And sober for the first time Thad could remember since what they all referred to now as the “accident.” Their wet suits ruined, both he and Thad wore T-shirts and blue jeans.

“This really isn't necessary.” But Hindsly gazed curiously over the side of the dive boat, a smaller version of the one in the accident. “The experts will be here shortly and surely can discover more than you.”

He'd impressed them with the credentials of the luminaries about to descend on the Metnál. A geologist would take samples of any volcanic rock found in the area. A chemical oceanographer would check for unusual chemical properties or imbalances in the water—acidity perhaps—or the ozone content. An ichthyologist and biologist would check out the fish, live coral, and plant life. Every conceivable aspect of the mystery would be probed by those with the knowledge to solve it.

“We have our own ghosts to lay.” Don adjusted his air tank, popped his regulator. The muscles and veins in his neck stood out in ridges. “I know you're scared shitless, Doc. How come you don't show it?”

“I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

Don's answering grin showed only in his eyes.

Hindsly seemed to have acquired a new crop of freckles every time Thad looked at him. His pipe successfully lit, the buoy bouncing on gentle waves, he leaned back and stretched his legs out before him. He swiveled to peer again over the side into the waters of the strange stories. “If what you tell me is true, I shouldn't think you'd want to go in. Eliseo here seems to be the only man of sense among you.”

Eliseo chain-smoked and stared out over the Metnál with an expression half-vacant, half-sad. “I don't want to stay long in this place, yes?”

“Member ol' Bo teasing about Martha Durwent's body? Those were the last words he ever said. Wonder if we'd've laughed if we'd known.” Don pulled down his mask, stuck his regulator in his mouth, and went over backward. Thad did the same, wondering if terror would strike again and those were to be the car salesman's last words.

Tourist brochures listed these waters as running between 80 and 84 degrees year around. But the sudden contact with sun-warmed skin made an icy first impression. Or was it the chill of memory? A momentary fluttering of his heart as it was shocked into changing gears.

The sun was weakened by a lace-thin layer of cloud. The water alternately brightened and darkened around him. They'd anchored closer to the sub than before. What had been a mound some distance from it was now a depression. A grouper swam over to investigate him, then nosed off with no show of concern or hurry—just the usual glum grouper expression. There'd been no fish here before.

An old maxim among divers was that if the fish suddenly clear out of an area, the diver would be wise to head for the surface. Why hadn't they thought of that maxim last time? A school of skinny silvery fish darted about overhead as if catching live, moving food too small for Thad to see. Don hung over the shallow crater that had been a mound, his fins treading slowly, his head connected to the light pool of the surface by a string of bubbles. His clothes clung in ripples to his muscled body.

Thad kicked his way to where (guessing by the location of the sub) he'd seen the diver sucked into the sand. Finding nothing, he circled the rim of the crater. No bodies of the lost, no gear washed from the dive boat, no coral growth, rocks, seaweed, or grass. Only fine white sand that floated through his fingers and hung on the water before drifting back into the crater. Was there some current here that kept the ocean floor so clean? Or did the monstrosity emerge at intervals? Such upheaval would wipe away normal growth. Would only sand tumble back into the crater when it submerged?

Don scraped and scooped at the center of the crater as if trying to find a trace of the thing. Thad moved farther beyond the perimeter, looking for signs of debris shoved off to the sides. The thing had been so big he'd have to go a ways. Why wouldn't the debris have tumbled back in and filled up the crater?

Not everyone had the opportunity to reexamine a nightmare. Perhaps a nightmare laid to rest was like a ghost. It no longer haunted. Perhaps the giant eyeball was a vehicle of some kind that rose up and out of the water, causing a partial eclipse of the sun as it rose heavenward, with some kind of antigravity device that had caught up the dive boat and the water beneath it. But he couldn't see how that would explain the disappearance of ships or the fact that time had been altered to give the victims another afternoon.

Could there be any connection to the fact that people on Mayan Cay dreamed a lot? No. That was probably something in the air or some unknown component in the food or water. Thad thought grimly of how his views of what constituted the ridiculous had altered since his first visit to the Metnál.

And then on a roughly elliptical course from the submarine—as if the crater were now the pupil of a vast eye and the submarine lay in the eye's inner corner and he was at the outer corner—he found what he looked for. Normal debris on the ocean floor. No living coral, but dead fish, a mucky-looking rock, uneven contours in the sand. Knowing the shape he was looking for now, he could follow the outline of it back to the center of the eye, where Don still scooped away. Sand formed a cloud around him, some of it rising toward the surface with his bubbles.