The Sound of Many Waters (13 page)

“So,” said the younger soldier, snickering. “Who’s your leader?”

“Captain Kirk. James T.”

The soldiers guffawed. “And what’s your name?” asked the tall one.

“Jeff Skywalker.”

“
Jeff
?”

“Luke’s nephew.” More laughter.

“Okay, Jeff. So how is it you’re able to talk with the—what is it again?”

“Mothership,” said Zane.

“Yeah, how do you talk to the mothership?”

“Phone home,” Zane said in his best imitation of
E.T.
, but when the soldiers raised their eyebrows without laughing, he knew he had gone too far. “Really, though,” said Zane, “that’s just what I call it. Layman’s terms, you know. I actually use a complex subatomic communications device, made with alien technologies that are
way
beyond your infantile minds.”

“Watch it,” said the tall soldier. He no longer looked amused. “What’s in the bag?”

“Just some stuff for my journey. Toothbrush, clean undies, astronaut ice cream.”

“Let me see.” The soldier stepped closer and reached for the bag but he stopped. His nostrils twitched and his face contorted. “What’s that smell?” he asked.

“What smell?” said Zane. He had been breathing through his mouth the entire time in order to avoid it.

The younger soldier smelled it, too. “What the hell is all over you, man?”

Zane tried to think of an answer appropriate to his character. Alien slime? Spaceship sewage? Antimatter? Nothing sounded authentic, even for a lunatic, so he went with the truth. “Vulture crap. I fell in it.”

The soldiers took a step back. “Nasty,” said the younger one.

The tall one lowered his gun. “We’ll have to give you a citation and get you back to the mainland. But you sure as hell ain’t riding in front.”

Keeping their distance, the soldiers ordered Zane into the flatbed of the Jeep and instructed him to sit against the tailgate. They did not appear concerned about him as a threat—maybe they were convinced that he was a harmless weirdo or were simply afraid to deal with his stench—and they did not even look back at him as the Jeep started bouncing down the road. Zane gazed toward the launch pad as they left and there in the dark woods near its base he saw Miguel glaring out. Zane waved, smiled and held up the duffel bag, but he quic
k
ly thought better of taunting a murderer and looked away.

The Jeep turned onto a paved motorway. Zane watched the seemingly endless swampland and forest fly by in a greenish-brown blur, every mile as good as a light year away from Miguel. Eventually the Jeep turned onto a wide four-lane highway. The driver turned on the stereo, but the R&B ballad that burst forth did not seem to agree with him. He scanned the stations until he came to Hank Williams, Jr., drawling out
A Country Boy Can Survive
.

“What’s with the cowboy music?” said the passenger.

The driver smiled. “What, a black man can’t listen to country?”

“I just thought you had better taste. I’m picking the next song.”

The Jeep reached a bridge that spanned an immense lagoon. As it climbed the steep road, Zane could see houses and condominiums on the other side—freedom. He looked at the body of water below and guessed it to be the Indian River. With scant wind, the water was glass. Crab trap buoys of various colors speckled the surface like ice cream sprinkles. A manatee sounded and left a circular upwelling with its tail. A bottlenose dolphin blasted a school of mullet, the front of its body coming all the way out to snare the one that tried to leap away.

When the song ended, a DJ came on to deliver breaking news. “Still no word on the whereabouts of the men wanted in connection with a boating accident and the death of a federal officer that occurred off the coast last night.”

Zane froze.

“My turn,” said the passenger, and he changed the station.

Zane exhaled.

“Hang on,” said the driver, and he changed it back. “Listen.”

No, no, no, thought Zane.

“Authorities say that one of the men has a history of drug abuse. They’ve identified him as Jupiter resident Zane Fisher. They describe Fisher as a 25-year-old white male, five-ten, medium build, sandy blonde hair, and blue eyes.”

The Jeep slowed and stopped at the top of the bridge. The soldiers both turned and looked at Zane. He feigned disinterest by gazing at the lagoon. “Police say Fisher may still be lost at sea or has swum to shore,” continued the DJ. “He’s consi
d
ered
extremely
dangerous and should not be approached. Now, back to your
Wacky Workday Hoedown
on K-95 FM.”

The driver shut off the stereo without looking at it. “They aren’t talking about you, are they, Jeff?”

“His name ain’t really Jeff, dumbass,” whispered the passenger.

“
I know that.
What’s your real name, buddy?”

The soldiers angled their guns toward Zane, so he grabbed the duffel bag, jumped out of the Jeep, and ran down the bridge. He stopped, however, when he saw a police car coming up the bridge toward him. He was cornered.

The soldiers leapt out of the Jeep, aiming their rifles at Zane. “On the ground!” yelled the younger soldier.

Zane looked at them with pleading eyes. “The guy you want is back at that launch pad.”

“I said get on the ground! Now!”

The police car stopped. A portly policeman stepped out. He aimed a pistol at Zane and inched toward him.

“Who’s this dirtbag?” the policeman yelled to the soldiers.

“I think he’s the one they’re looking for,” shouted the tall soldier. “We found him near the beach.”

Panic filled the policeman’s face and he mumbled something into his shoulder-mounted radio. Then he looked at Zane. “Are they right? Was that you in the boat out there?”

Zane hesitated, but he was tired of lying. The time had come to give up, to come clean. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“You piece of crap. You like to kill cops?”

Zane was startled. “No sir.”

The policeman glared at him with terrible eyes. “Cop-killers don’t get arrested. They get shot. I want you to know that before I pull this trigger.”

Zane went damp with terror. Without even looking down to check the height or depth or if there appeared to be any dangers in the water—the three unwritten rules he had learned from a childhood of jumping off Jupiter’s bridges for fun—he turned and leapt over the guardrail. A gunshot cracked behind him but he was too distracted by the sensation of freefalling to even wonder if he had been hit.

When he glimpsed the brown water coming up from below, he let go of the duffel bag and curled into a ball. The world around him detonated. The water’s impact sent stinging pain through his whole body and the force of the fall pr
o
pelled him deep into a shadowy gloom where his legs were thrust into cold mud up to his thighs. He tried to extract them but it felt as if they were cemented in. He realized that he would soon drown if he did not get himself unstuck. A stu
n
ning thought flashed in his mind—this could be it.

Chapter Thirteen

The serpentine river twisted and contorted northward until it pushed the canoe across a shallow delta and out onto a vast lake, its waters as black as cassina. Angry little wind-driven waves jostled the canoe and spit in Dominic’s face. Licking the rim of his mouth, the water’s pleasant flavor surprised him.
Agua dulce
—sweet water—was the Spanish term for fresh water, and the contents of this lake fit that description more precisely than anything he’d ever tasted. He dipped his hand and cupped a sip to his mouth.

“Do not do that,” said Francisco.

Dominic stopped drinking mid-sip. “Please tell me the water is not poisonous.”

“The water is good, but you should not put your hand in it. You will bring things up from below.”

Dominic gazed into the dark water. The sunlight struggled to penetrate its surface. “Snakes?”

“Worse.”

“Alliga—” he stopped. “Itori?”

“Close.”

“Enough riddles, old man.”

Francisco leaned toward him. “Alligator
gar
.”

“Gar?” Dominic laughed. “A fish?”

“Not just any fish. These grow as long as this canoe and their teeth will peel the skin right off a man’s bones. Splashing brings them in. That is why you do not see any of us dangling our hands in the water.”

Dominic cupped another handful and gulped it down. “I am not afraid of a fish.” He had never tasted water so delicious and he intended to drink as much as his stomach would allow. He splashed some on his face and ran his wet fingers through his hair. The coolness invigorated him.

“I am not telling stories,” said Francisco. “You will attract them.”

Dominic grinned. “I cannot help it. I am an attractive man.”

“This is not a joke. How do you think I lost my finger?”

“I thought the Calusa ate it.”

Dominic leaned over for another handful but stopped; an iridescent eye stared up at him. Dominic squinted. The eye, because of its sheen, was the only thing visible in the murk; the rest of the creature must have been a dark color because it was totally concealed. The eye descended mere inches and vanished.

Dominic leaned back. “I may have just seen a—”

The water exploded near the front of the canoe. A jagged snout with rows of scythe-like teeth grabbed hold of Utina’s paddle blade. When Utina jerked back, the thing in the water reacted violently, whipping its tail, arching its thick back, and flexing its spade-like scales. Dominic froze in awe—the fish had to be ten feet long. With one tic of its head, a
crack
rang out and the beast disappeared into the blackness, leaving Utina with the splintered end of a now useless paddle.

Everyone was stunned, but no one more than Dominic. He pulled his hands away from the edge and folded them in his lap. “Good God,” he whispered.

“Still not afraid of fish, commander?” said Francisco.

Dominic scowled. “Mock me again and you will be swimming with that thing.”

Only one paddle remained, and it was in Francisco’s hands. He held it up and said something in Timucuan, and then repeated it in Spanish. “I do not want to be responsible for our success or failure.”

Dominic could see by the worry on the natives’ faces how dire the situation had become. They all stared at the paddle as if it were both cursed and anointed. None of them seemed to want to take it.

“Give it to me,” said Dominic. “I will do it.”

The natives watched Francisco contemplate the offer. “No matter what,” said Francisco, “do not let go of it.” Dominic nodded and Francisco handed the paddle to him.

The natives bowed toward the sun in unison and mouthed a silent prayer. Francisco, in turn, closed his eyes and recited the
Our Father
in Latin.

“
Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…
”

Dominic put the end of the paddle in the water and pulled it back, remembering to make a curve at the end of his stroke. The canoe lurched forward.

“
Adveniat regnum tuum
.
Fiat voluntas tua...
”

At first the prayer repulsed Dominic, but its tempo soon had a calming effect. It was like a relic from his past life in Spain and—as he concentrated on the rhythm of his paddling—his mind wandered across the ocean, across a decade, to the last European foundation his boots ever touched before they carried him to his ship.

“
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,
” said the bishop, his arms stretched toward each wing of the cathedral.
“Amen.
”

When the time came to receive Communion, Dominic knelt with difficulty on the stone floor. He despised having to wear the cold, unbending armor expected of a conqueror, even on this, the morning of his first voyage to the New World. The garish steel helmet weighed as much as a cannonball and the malformed breastplate pushed in on his ribcage, refusing to let him draw a full breath. He longed to reach the open seas where he could take off the ridiculous outfit without offending the hierarchy. He envisioned tossing it into the sea and watching it sink into oblivion.

The bishop placed the
eucaristía
on Dominic’s tongue. Dominic closed his mouth and let it dissolve. That familiar stale-bread taste he had come to love as a child mingled with his saliva and diffused across the nodes of his tongue. He made the sign of the cross, closed his eyes, and swallowed. It may have been his anticipation about the voyage, his lack of oxygen from the armor, or perhaps his delight from having received absolution after an embarrassingly long confession, but Dominic felt something.

It began as a subtle speck of joy fluttering behind the little notch between stomach and breast, and then it expanded into something like a flower. He could see it without seeing it, this white, holy blossom in his chest, and he prayed for God to let him carry it all the way to the New World so that he might be a new kind of conqueror, one who puts the cross before the sword, one who is merciful and just—exactly like his father had not been. At the mere thought of his father, however, the flower wilted and was no more.