The Lower Deep (29 page)

Clermont held up both hands in a wait-a-minute gesture. "I know that, too. I mean I know the story."

"Do you think he's hallucinating?"

"To put it mildly."

"Well, that's what I think, too, of course, or I wouldn't be here talking to you. He did me a picture, though." Morris took a folded sheet of paper from the pocket of his sport shirt, carefully unfolded it, and glanced at it with a shake of his head as he passed it over the desk into Clermont's outstretched hand.

Abraham Lincoln studied it.

"As you can see, he's a better than fair artist," the navy man said. "Both he and his sister—my wife—have exhibited in some first-rate galleries. It was an interest in the primitive art movement that brought Paul here to St. Joe in the first place."

Clermont nodded. "But if this thing is even close to what he saw, he saw it in a nightmare, Commander." Still gazing at the watercolor, he began to shake his head.

"Well, he mentioned having nightmares. Before what he calls the reality, that is. He insists he actually saw things like that, though—many of them—in an undersea cave. He even described the cave. Did he tell you that?"

"He told me most of it, Commander. And my guess is he really believes it. This picture fits how he described the creatures to me, too, so he's at least being consistent." Again Clermont held the watercolor before his bearded face and scowled at it.

What was it, this monstrous thing he was staring at? A sea creature? A human being? In shape its green, scaly head did vaguely resemble that of a humanoid. The two small, close-together eyes apparently lacked eyelids, and it possessed no visible nose, but it did have an oversize mouth somewhere between that of a man and a barracuda. From each side of its sleek, scaly body protruded an arm-like growth that ended in a kind of hand, something like the front legs of certain frogs or lizards, but where it logically should have had legs also, the drawing showed only what looked like a fish's tail struggling to evolve into human limbs.

And all of it was green. Even its round, bulging eyes looked like green-glass marbles. Could that be because Paul Henninger had had access to no other paint? No, because when you looked closely, you could see he had actually used other colors—black, brown, yellow, white, certainly—in achieving certain subtle shadings of the green. No doubt this was what the ghastly creatures really looked like, then.

So much for specifics. What the things also had,
Clermont realized with a prolonged shudder, was an overall look of menace that would strike terror to the heart of any person meeting one. In all his life he had never felt quite as frightened as he did at this moment. The creature in Henninger's painting was awesomely hideous.

"So, Doctor?" Commander Morris's gaze had not left Clermont's face.

"Meaning what do I think?"

Morris nodded.

Clermont hesitated. "Well, as I've said—or have I?—Paul described these things to me and told me about the undersea cave you mentioned. So what do I think? Afraid I don't have any simple answer."

"You must have some idea," the navy man said.

"An idea, nothing more. For a long time now your brother-in-law has been having a hard time distinguishing dreams from reality. I've been treating him and I know how big a problem it has become. So these undersea creatures he claims to have encountered could be merely an invention of his imagination. Yet how can we be sure?" Clermont started to hand the painting back, then changed his mind. "May I keep this awhile?"

"Why not?" The commander stood up, obviously disappointed. "Suppose I leave you my Guantanamo phone number, too, just in case. Then if you come up with anything, or there is any change—"

"Do that, Commander." Louis Clermont reached for a pad of paper. "Please. Just in case."

That night, reflecting on his encounter with Paul Henninger and his talk with Paul's brother-in-law,
Clermont found himself unable to sleep. Too much to think about. What the hell, he suddenly decided in typical Louis Clermont style, why don't I have a drink and read the damned article?

He poured himself half a glass of his country's famed rum, filled the glass with club soda from his refrigerator, got back into bed with his drink and the newspaper, and began reading.

The article opened with an overly dramatic account of the
Ti Maman's
disappearance, based on an interview with Elizabeth Langer. Then in bold type the writer asked, "Is it possible we have a second Bermuda Triangle off our own north coast?

"As anyone able to read must know by now," the story continued, "the Bermuda or Devil's Triangle is a reputedly perilous patch of ocean off the coast of Florida, extending roughly through the Bahamas to the Puerto Rico Trench, then north to Bermuda and back to Florida. Within that area seemingly inexplicable disasters have been occurring for years.

"The records show that scores of ships and planes have disappeared without explanation. A thousand or more lives have been lost.

"The sea claims many victims, of course, but there can be no doubt whatever that this particular area claims more than its share. For example . . ." Here followed a long list of ships and planes that had disappeared in the Triangle, with dates and details.

"And now this government boat, used in teaching our island fishermen how to improve their methods, has vanished off our northern coast in an equally mysterious manner," the story went on. "Was she a victim of the 'time warp' or 'space warp' that certain researchers believe exists within the Triangle? Or could she have fallen prey to the 'force of evil' believed in by others? Or even, to let the imagination run unchecked, was she destroyed by some fantastic power source that was let loose in the sea when the fabled continent of Atlantis was submerged by a cataclysm?

"Time, perhaps, will supply an answer. Meanwhile, we can but wait."

In an outburst of disgust, Dr. Louis Clermont hurled the newspaper across his bedroom. "Blasted yellow rag!" he shouted after it. "There ought to be a law against such garbage!"

Then with the light out he lay awake for another hour, unable to stop thinking about the sketch the navy pilot from Guantanamo had shown him that afternoon.

A
ll that morning George Benson had been tormented by one of his headaches—which, as he had been insisting to Dr. Clermont lately, were not ordinary headaches but were like a penetration of the mind by some outside influence. As though, for example, he were being subjected to sounds, even commands, that he could not actually hear, like those dog-training whistles dogs could hear but humans could not.

Not wanting to go home for lunch—why should he?—he had brought a couple of corned beef sandwiches with him, but gave them to a hungry kid at the Pointe Pierre pier because he felt too miserable to eat them. At three-thirty, hoping Dannie André would be home from school, he quit and
walked up through the town to her house. To hell with it if anyone saw him.

After all, there was not much more he could do to help his fishermen without a boat, and the government had not yet kept its promise to replace his lost
Ti Maman.
He had been working with his guys on modern ways of making nets and traps, what bait to use and how to use it, that kind of thing. Had even made a stab at trying out his "short long line" theory, with some success. New projects would have to wait.

One thing was encouraging. His most eager pupil had come in yesterday with a boatload of big red snapper. Had caught them by using some of the new techniques in real deep water off an outer reef where Dame Marie fishermen had had no special luck before.

George found himself telling Dannie André about that even before he closed her door behind him and took her into his arms. Then he said unhappily, "This is going to be a lousy visit, hon. My head's full of hammers again."

They clung to each other, not even trying to kiss, and Dannie murmured at last, "Mine, too."

"What?"

"My head is pounding, too, darling. It began in school this morning, and nothing I've done has seemed to help." With a wan smile she stepped back and looked at him. "Let's go lie down, shall we?"

They went into her bedroom, which she had gone all out to make pretty after it had become a special kind of room to them. The pale blue curtains at the window were new, and she had painted the bed and bureau white with a pale blue trim and found some matching rugs for the old hardwood floor. Without undressing or even talking much at first, they lay in each other's arms, Dannie with her head on George's shoulder.

More and more he needed this woman, George knew, and not just to make love to her. He needed her to talk to about his messed-up life, his hopes for the future . . . even just to hold like this, saying nothing but feeling the nearness of her and knowing she cared. There would have to be a divorce, even if Alice and he hadn't reached the point of talking about one. Then he would marry Dannie and take her to the States. Or if she wanted to stay here in St. Joseph for the rest of her life, the island would become his home, too. He could be happy anywhere with her.

She was asleep, he guessed from the evenness of her breathing. Easing her head from his shoulder, he turned himself to look at her. Yes, those expressive dark brown eyes were closed now, and if she still had the headache, her face in repose didn't show it.

He studied her, wanting for some reason to be sure he would never forget a single detail of what she looked like. Her soft, full lips, the special golden glow that seemed to come from just under the surface of her smooth skin. The certainty she would smile if she suddenly opened her eyes and found him staring at her. Good God, how could he ever have thought Alice was beautiful? How blind could a man be?

Her eyes did open. She did smile at him. "Hi," she said. "I fell asleep, didn't I?"

"How's your headache?"

The smile flickered and went out, like a failing light bulb. "Awful," she said. Then, with a frown, "It's worse today than I can ever remember, George. What's happening?"

"Have you taken anything for it?"

"Well, some aspirin at school."

"Doc Clermont gave me something he said is stronger." Sliding off the bed, George produced a plastic vial of tablets from his pocket. "Let me get you some water."

Returning from the kitchen, he handed her two of the tablets and a glass of water, and thought again how much he loved this woman, how much he needed her. When they were together, everything worked for him. Even the pounding in his head, right now, no longer frightened him.

She took the tablets and said, "Come hold me again, huh? Just a little longer?"

He did that, and she fell asleep again, and then so did he. When they awoke, it was dark out and with great reluctance he got up to go home.

At the door Dannie did not kiss him good-bye as she usually did. She only clung to him for a moment.

He wondered why her heart beat so fast and hard against his chest was it the headache? Was something else troubling her? All the way home he thought about it and was uneasy. His own head was thudding unmercifully again, and with only a nod to Alice, who was in the kitchen, he went to his room and shut the door.

A little later, Alice came into his room to ask if he was all right. "Really, George, you ought to eat something even if you don't feel up to it," she said. "Going hungry won't help."

He wondered why the sudden interest in him, but when he got up and went to the table, the answer was obvious. For some reason she had prepared a good meal. Roast pork, vegetables, a mango pie . . . she didn't often go to all that trouble.

He forced himself to eat. Forced himself to thank her. Then he went back to his room, undressed, and went to bed for the night.

And awoke in a blaze of pain after biting his tongue.

This time his wife was standing beside his bed, smiling down at him.

"Get up, George," she said. "We're going somewhere."

George was still sufficiently master of his movements to look at the bedroom clock. The time was half past four, he perceived vaguely. Half past four in the morning? It must be. His room was aglow with moonlight.

"George, please," Alice said impatiently. She was fully dressed, wearing her blue pantsuit. And there was something strange about her eyes or the way she was using them. They glowed a little. They were green, like seawater.

"George!" she said again. Ominously this time, as though running out of patience and threatening him.

"All right, all right." But he found it hard to swing his legs out of bed because his body no longer seemed to belong to him.

"That's better, George. Now get dressed."

"To do what? What shall I wear?"

"It doesn't matter what you wear."

"Where are we going?"