The Lower Deep (10 page)

The beach was deserted, of course. During the day you might find some of the patients here, now and then even an off-duty member of the staff, but at this hour the crabs owned the place. The beam from his flashlight picked them out—slow-moving, otherworld weirdies that fled like phantoms when the light touched them. The smell of the sea was cleaner and sharper at night, too. I should do this for the fun of it now and then, Steve thought. Not just when I have to.

He walked along only a few feet from the water's edge, sweeping a broad section of the sand with his light. The beam picked out lumps of coral of assorted shapes and sizes, creating a fantasy world of shadows as it struck them. It hovered briefly over clumps of seaweed that just might hide the pajamas he was looking for. Once it touched a small-bodied, long-legged bird, seemingly asleep on its feet, that sprang to life and went racing down the shore ahead of him with its wings outspread but rigid. Not a pelican. Much smaller than that. But for some reason it caused him to think of pelicans.

The other day he had asked the kitchen fellow, Lazaire, why the menu didn't include more fish. Lazaire had told him that the man from the States, George Benson, was trying to teach the local fishermen to use nets, among other things, so they would catch more. But pelicans dived on the nets when they were being hauled in and . . .

Hold it. What was that?

His light had touched something he wasn't looking for and hadn't expected. Some thirty feet ahead of him a tall, dark figure trudged along the water's edge just as he himself did—and in the same direction, down the shore toward Anse Douce.

"Hey! You, there! Hold on a minute, will you?"

He had spoken in English, he realized. How the hell did you say that in Creole? Because if the fellow were a native fisherman walking the beach with a cast net, as some of them did when trying for small fish in shallow water, he of course wouldn't understand.

The man stopped anyway. Turned. In the flashlight's beam his face was white, and what made the rest of him dark was not his skin but his clothes. The black pants and black shirt were as good as a name tag.

"Mr. Lindo!" Steve hurried forward. Lawton Lindo, the attorney, had brought only dark clothes to the Azagon because, he insisted, a tropic sun would raise the very devil with his extra fair skin.
Even in Baltimore the sun was a problem for him, he claimed. In the light of Steve's flash his long, thin face looked like a white mask with large dark holes for eyes.

"Mr. Lindo, what in the world are you doing out here at this hour?"

"Uh? What? Oh, it's you, Dr. Spence." The attorney leaned forward for a closer look, and his words were slurred. Yet according to Tom Driscoll and the staff psychologist, he was a brilliant man; just couldn't accept that a man with his problem must never take that first drink. "I—ah—I couldn't sleep, Doctor. Thought a walk might help me to relax."

"A walk to where?"

"Nowhere in particular."

They were beyond the hotel beach now. Ahead lay Anse Doucé, where Paul Henninger had come ashore after his frightening long-distance swim. Steve put a gentle hand on the lawyer's arm. "You weren't walking in your sleep, were you, Mr. Lindo?"

A look of fear suddenly touched the too-white face. "In my sleep? God, I hope not! I've been—I've been doing that too often lately!"

"Along the shore here, you mean?"

"I—well, at least once, yes. I was almost at that strange cove once when I woke up. That Anse—what is it called?"

"Anse Douce."

"Yes. Anse Douce. In fact, I was there, and even though it was night, I had to resist a strong urge to go swimming. But I told you about that, didn't I? Or was it Dr. Driscoll I spoke to about it?"

Without waiting for an answer, he let a scowl change the shape of his face. "May I ask what
you
are doing here at this hour, Doctor?"

Steve hesitated. "I'm looking for something."

"Looking for something?"

"Someone else went sleepwalking and had an urge to go swimming tonight. Came back naked and said he left his pajamas on the beach here somewhere. I'm just doing a bit of checking." Here was a chance to get to know Lindo better, wasn't it? "Why don't you come along with me?"

"Well—"

"I wish you would. If you've been walking in your sleep, I can't in good conscience let you go back alone, can I? And I do want to find those pajamas before the tide takes them out or some fisherman comes along and takes a fancy to them."

"Well—all right," Lindo replied with apparent reluctance. "Afraid I won't be much help, though, without a flashlight."

"It
is
a dark night. I'm surprised you got this far without a light."

Lindo looked down at his empty hands. "I'm—surprised, too, Doctor." His words were slurred again. "How—how did I—how do you suppose I knew enough to get dressed, but didn't realize it was so dark? Is it the booze, Dr. Spence? Will I ever be my old self again?"

"Lawton," Steve said gently, "let's have a long talk about that later. Right now we've some pajamas to find."

They went on together, Steve again using his flashlight to sweep the beach ahead. Again its beam seemed to magnify the lumps of coral, the
crabs scurrying, the clumps of washed-up seaweed that demanded investigation. The breeze off the sea was so light it barely cooled his face. The waves were but ripples, touching the shore with little more noise than his own breathing.

When they reached Anse Douce, Lawton Lindo shuffled to a halt and turned to stare at the jumble of coral boulders looming there. Steve stopped, too, and frowned at him.

"You see something?"

"I—no, Doctor. I
feel
something."

This was where Paul Henninger had come ashore, if his story could be believed. Very slowly Steve played his light over the cove beach, from one end to the other.

One clump of seaweed seemed suspicious and he walked over to it, even pushed it apart with a foot. But the suspicious ingredient was only a ragged T-shirt left by some youngster, or perhaps dropped off a boat and washed ashore.

"You say you
feel
something here, Mr. Lindo? It would help if you—"

"Could be more specific?" The attorney shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I—well, I can't find the right words for it. That's a sorry admission, isn't it, from a man with a reputation for always knowing what to say in a courtroom." The too-white face had taken on a look of apprehension now, perhaps even of fear. "It's like—it's like the moth and the flame thing, but in this case the moth senses he's going to be destroyed but still can't resist. For God's sake, Doctor, don't let me go wandering away from the Azagon again. I might do something crazy."

Steve sent a glance at the jumble of boulders. Should he take the time to look there? No. Paul Henninger wouldn't have gone poking into such an unlikely place in the dark, and anyway, he ought to get Lindo away from here. There was something about this "peaceful cove" that—well, even he himself was getting some nasty vibes now, as though the place were some kind of time bomb that might go off at any minute.

Anse Douce behind them, they continued on down the shore to the row of fishermen's shacks at Pointe Pierre. There Steve halted. "End of the line," he said grudgingly. "No one ever swims beyond here, I'm told. Not even the townspeople."

Lindo was obviously tired. "Can we go back, then, Doctor?"

"
Yes.
Let's."

It was quarter to six by Steve's watch when Lindo and he arrived back at the Azagon. Dawn was jacking up the night sky with layers
of pale color.

Steve took Lindo to his first-floor room and left him there, with a promise to return later in the morning for a discussion of his problems and a physical checkup. As he climbed the stairs to his own room, he was aware of the usual early-morning sounds from the kitchen.

He had not locked his door when he left, but had closed it, he was sure. To his surprise, it was open now. Entering, he found his handsome young Cuban friend, Juan Mendoza, sitting there on a chair by a window.

Steve blinked in surprise. "How long have you been here?"

"An hour or so, Steve. I have something to tell you. Something I think you ought to know."

Closing the door, Steve went to the dresser and leaned against it with his arms folded. "You followed Henninger tonight, didn't you?"

"How'd you know?"

"Tom Driscoll saw you go out, both of you. Look here." Straightening from his slouch, Steve moved his hands to his hips. "Paul says he went walking in his sleep again and woke up in the middle of the Atlantic, naked. Did you see him go swimming?"

"No, Steve."

"Well, he did arrive back here with nothing on. But when I walked the beach to Pointe Pierre just now, I couldn't find the pajamas he says he had on when he left here. What do you think, Juan? How far did you follow him, anyway?"

"Not to any beach," the Cuban said calmly. "He was wearing pajamas, yes, but he went into town. And he went by road."

"What?"

"He went into town by road. I was behind him every step of the way."

Steve thought about it. "Was he sleepwalking, you suppose?"

"Pretty purposeful sleepwalking, if you ask me. I think he wore his pajamas to have an alibi if anyone saw him. You know the section of town they call The Hounfor? I don't suppose you do."

"The Hounfor? That's voodoo. The inner sanctum."

"True. And that part of Dame Marie, back of the marketplace, is where the voodoo people live. But it's also the local red-light district. That's where I lost him."

Steve took in a breath and waited.

"I was close behind him when he passed the market. He turned down a lane just beyond it. When I reached the lane, he was nowhere in sight," Mendoza said.

"Then?"

"He could have gone into any of the houses along there. They're all whorehouses." The Cuban shrugged. "I walked the lane and back, trying to be a detective, but he'd vanished. There wasn't even a light in a window. I suspect he saw me following him and warned them to put the lights out."

"So his tale of a swim—"

"All I know is what I've told you."

"But damn it, Juan, if you wanted to get laid and hide the fact, would you invent a story about going for a midnight swim? It makes no sense!"

"It might if you lost your pajamas and had to explain coming home without them."

"How could he lose his pajamas in a place like that?"

"He's a foreigner, Steve. Some of the natives here have a weird sense of humor where off-islanders are concerned."

Steve was silent for a time, then shook his head. "I need some time to think about this," he said at last. "Get the hell out of here, will you? Go skin diving or harness racing or whatever it is you do
for amusement at the moment. Leave me alone with what
I
have to do."

But as Mendoza got up and walked to the door, Steve felt the need to add apologetically, "I didn't mean that, lad. I appreciate your trying to help in all this, believe me."

When the door closed behind Mendoza, Steve looked at his watch again. What he called his "getting-up-time" was six-thirty, so there was no point in going to bed now. He opened his door and stepped into the hall. After a pause to make sure the rest of the Azagon still slept—except, of course, for the kitchen help downstairs—he strode silently along the corridor to a room he had been in twice before, and lightly knocked.

"Yes?" The voice was Nadine Palmer's.

"Me. Steve."

He heard her get out of bed and come to the door. When it opened, he silently entered.

Nurse Palmer relocked the door and stepped into his waiting arms. "What a nice surprise!" she whispered. Her nightgown was a bit of froth that let him thoroughly enjoy holding her. She returned his kiss with fervor.

But then he shook his head and stepped back. "I came to talk, lady. And not about us this time." When alone with her before, he had talked about what he now called his five lost days—those days at the Brightman, of which he remembered nothing, following his experience at La Souvenance. Over and over he had begged Nadine to tell him why she had refused to see him before he left there and returned to the States—why she had never
replied to his letters—why, though they had been so very much in love, she had slammed the door and locked him out of her life.

"Come to bed," she urged him now. "We've time enough."

"Well . . . but I do have to talk to you."

With his clothes off and Nadine naked beside him, he explored her body with his fingertips and briefly told her about Paul Henninger's latest adventure. She wasn't much interested, he realized. Though this was not the first time they had been in bed together since his coming to the Azagon, maybe there was something special about their making love at such an unlikely time, when the day was about to begin and they just might be found out.