In the Deep

by White, Loreth Anne

  Nothing about this made sense.

  Lozza came to her feet and waited for Gregg to quit throwing up. Mosquitoes buzzed in clouds about them. Rain beat down steadily, and water dripped off the bill of her police cap.

  “You good?” she asked.

  He nodded, his face ghostly in the light of her torch.

  “Let’s get back to the launch.”

  She’d phoned it in. Reception had been spotty but she’d gotten through. They made their way back to the police launch.

  Barney sat beneath the targa cover. Rain pattered and ran off McGonigle’s jacket in silver rivulets.

  “ETA for forensic services and a homicide squad detective is about two hours,” Lozza said as they reached the boat moored to the jetty. “We need to cordon this area off while we wait.” She turned to Barney. “There’s a path leading off the end of the dock. Where does it go?”

  “Abandoned homestead,” Barney said. “The Agnes Marina developers erected some scaffolding near the old house. It’s for prospective buyers who want to climb up to a platform and survey the view they’ll get from the new lodge when it’s built.”

  Lozza turned to Gregg. “Cordon off the immediate area with tape,” she said. “We can extend the cordon as we get a better idea of the scope of the scene. I’m going to take a look down that trail. The decedent lost his fingers somewhere. My bet is he didn’t drown here, either, but was killed elsewhere, and then someone tried to dispose of him in this channel full of big muddies.” Lozza addressed Barney. “Want to show me the way to that old farmhouse?”

  “Are you bloody nuts? No bloody way I’m going in there. Not to that place. Not now. In this weather? Hell no.” He made another sign of the cross over his body.

  Thunder clapped and rain doubled in volume and velocity. Water bounced off the river almost a half meter high, creating a shimmering silvery cauldron as white lightning pulsed through the mangrove swamp.

  Lozza left Mac manning the watercraft and radio while Gregg strung out blue-and-white crime scene tape, marking off the immediate area. She picked her way slowly along a narrow and dark path through the tangle of trees. A wet spiderweb caught her across the face, and she started. She wiped the sticky threads off and continued. Reeds snapped back, branches clawed at her jacket.

  A lizard as large as a small dog scurried across her path. She stilled and controlled her breathing before continuing again.

  Lightning flared simultaneously with a loud crack of thunder, and she saw the house. The thunder grumbled into the distance, the forest went black again, and the rain drummed down even harder, creating little rivers through the swamp. Lozza picked her way carefully along the wet path until she came upon the derelict building.

  It was a single story with an old tin roof that clattered under the raindrops. A covered veranda ran around the house. Lightning flashed again and silhouetted the low building against gnarled trees.

  She made her way to the front door. The porch floor was rotted, and the door hung on rusted hinges. She creaked it open.

  A bat darted out and she ducked. The creature’s claws tangled in her cap and hair before it fluttered out into the swamp with a screech and a whopping of wings. Her heart hammered. She entered the building. It was sweltering inside the house. It smelled of urine and excrement and . . . something worse. Like putrid meat. She panned her beam across the room. It lit on a broken table. Two chairs with metal legs. A kitchen area with an old stove. She made her way deeper into the house. The heat and stench grew stronger. Lozza covered her nose and mouth with her arm. Rain clattered on the old corrugated metal roofing and dripped through holes, puddling on the floor.

  She entered a room at the end of the passage. Her eyes adjusted as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing.

  A chair in the middle of the room. A man’s boating shoe lay near the chair. Ropes hung down from an exposed rafter. The rope ends trailed around the chair. New ropes. Yellow and blue—same colors as the polyprop tied around the floater’s ankles. The exposed wooden floorboards were stained dark under the chair.

  Blood?

  Urine?

  Lozza looked up and panned her beam along the roof rafter where the ropes had been tied. A sense of horror seeped into her. She entered the room slowly and the air stirred around her, lifting spiderwebs that wafted in the currents her movements created. Heat rose and the stench increased. She aimed her beam into the corner. Her pulse quickened. A pile of excrement.

  Human?

  She moved closer. Near the pile of feces lay a tangled pair of men’s cargo pants and once-white boxers. The pants were blood-soaked. The boxers appeared soiled with human excrement, and the stink was stifling. She moved her light back to the chair and froze as something near the far wall caught her eye.

  Lozza inched toward it. Floorboards creaked beneath her boots. A gecko scurried, and something cried outside. She crouched down, her arm still covering her mouth and nose.

  The missing fingers from the floater’s right hand. Three.

  Beside the severed digits lay a pair of secateurs, pruning clippers. On the handle of the clippers was the name of the Cresswell-Smiths’ boat. Abracadabra.

  Lozza came slowly to her feet. She began to back away, not wanting to disturb the scene any further. The heel of her boot kicked something that spun and clattered across the wooden floor. She swung her beam in the direction of the sound. A knife. Fishing knife. Bloodied. And behind the knife, more clothing.

  Lozza walked slowly over the creaking floorboards, trepidation filling her throat. She crouched down beside the pile and shone her beam on it. A royal-blue windbreaker and a pale-blue Nike baseball cap. Bloodied. The label inside the jacket was legible.

  CANADIAN OUTFITTERS

  The jacket came from Canada.

  She thought of Ellie and her soft Canadian accent, her big gentle eyes.

  “I hope you don’t find him. And if you do, I hope he’s dead and that he suffered.”

  She thought of all the witnesses who’d seen Martin and Ellie heading out in their boat, Ellie dressed in her royal-blue windbreaker and pale-blue cap, her long dark ponytail blowing in wind that had been too strong to offer a good day of fishing. Ellie returning home.

  With a gloved hand Lozza picked up the cap and examined it more closely under the beam of her flashlight. A few long dark hairs—almost black—were caught in the Velcro of the adjustable strap at the back.

  Thunder cracked. Lozza stiffened, glanced up. Lightning pulsed outside the broken windows, turning everything inside this room of horrors into a stark image of black against white. She felt sick.

  Carefully she replaced the Nike ball cap as she’d found it. Lozza pushed to her feet and backed out of the room along the same path by which she’d entered.

  THEN

  ELLIE

  Just over two years ago, January 9. Vancouver, BC.

  I rushed toward the elevators, rounded a corner, and saw Martin step into an elevator. The woman was walking away. Insane relief gushed through me—the idea that he might have been heading off with that attractive businesswoman from the Mallard Lounge had galvanized me. I couldn’t wait for life any longer. I needed to grab hold of all the things with both fists and squeeze the glorious juice from them before someone else snatched them away.

  The elevator doors started to slide closed.

  “Wait!” I rushed forward.

  He saw me. Shock registered on his face. He slapped his hand on the elevator door, stopping it from closing. His gaze locked on mine.

  “Ellie?”

  I breathed fast, both thrilled and terrified. My heart thumped with adrenaline. I saw he was alone in the elevator car.

  “What is it, Ellie?”

  Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the brunette stop and glance back. A moment of doubt quivered through me. But the woman turned and disappeared around the corner.

  I stepped into the elevator and placed my hand against the side of his face. His eyes turned dark. Desire chan
ged the shape of his face.

  “Ellie?” he whispered.

  I leaned up and brushed my lips against his. The doors slid closed. His breathing quickened. He grabbed the back of my neck, his fingers thrusting into my hair at the nape, and he pulled me close. He pressed his mouth against mine. With his other hand he hit a button for a top floor. I reached for his belt and began unbuckling it.

  He ran a hand up the side of my thigh, then up under my sweater dress. The elevator car began to rise, smooth, gliding to the top.

  His body was solid, his thighs big. He inserted his knee between my legs. His lips forced open my mouth and his tongue tangled with mine. He tasted of port. He cupped my bottom and yanked my pelvis up against his. I felt his erection against my groin. My vision turned black and scarlet as he moved his hand into my pantyhose and cupped my crotch. I sagged into his touch, melted into it. A small groan rose in his throat as he pushed a finger up inside me. My brain swirled into a dizzying kaleidoscope of pleasure. He thrust up harder, deeper, kissing me more forcibly. I lost myself in the glorious, blinding sensation, feeling like I was going to explode as pressure built inside me.

  Frantically, I undid his pants.

  He moved fast.

  Our sex was animalistic. Primal.

  I gasped as he thrust up into me, and I braced a hand against the mirrored elevator walls. I gasped and shattered as he released inside me. I couldn’t breathe. I felt blinded. I struggled to focus.

  The elevator bell pinged.

  I blinked. We’d reached the thirty-second floor. The doors started to open.

  He hurriedly extracted himself. As the doors opened wide I pulled down my skirt. My hands shook. He watched my eyes as he did up his pants. Intense. Like a wolf. Sex with Martin was like being eaten by a wolf.

  No one waited outside the car. Thank heavens. Martin stepped out and looked down the hallway. The lighting was muted. The hallway was empty.

  He turned to me, held out his hand. “Come,” he whispered, his eyes still dark pools, the soft blue swallowed by his dilated irises.

  “Come to my room, Ellie Tyler,” he said.

  My lips tingled. My insides felt tender. I felt hot all over again. I felt powerful.

  “Be with me for the night, Ellie.”

  An elderly couple approached down the corridor. They entered the elevator car with me still in it. It struck me—what I’d done. A raw wave of panic, anxiety, rose inside me. What had just happened here? I caught sight of myself in the elevator mirror. A distorted Ellie. Smudged eye makeup. Mussed hair. Kiss-swollen lips. Rumpled dress.

  The other Ellie—the new Ellie, the chameleon Ellie, the powerful Ellie Tyler—had been let out, and I wasn’t quite ready to deal with the collateral damage she could cause to my old self.

  I forced a smile that felt more like a grimace, suddenly both terrified and emboldened by my reckless behavior. I needed to digest what I’d just done. The elderly gentleman pressed the button for the lobby. He glanced at me.

  “I . . . I need to get an early start,” I said to Martin, who stood waiting outside the elevator, his hand out to me. The doors started to slide closed.

  “El—”

  The doors closed.

  I heard him yell and slap the door. “Call me!”

  The elevator car descended. Going down, down, down. I could smell him on me. Smell sex in the elevator. The mirror was still misted from my steamy touch. The couple exchanged a glance and moved farther away from me. The elevator stopped on a lower floor. A man got on. He stared at me. I was filled with a sudden self-revulsion. Shame. He could smell sex on me—I was sure of it. He was giving me a lewd look. Claustrophobia tightened. An old sensation of paranoia resurfaced in me. Like everyone was watching me, knowing things, voices whispering behind my back, susurrations in the wind . . . mocking . . .

  Bad mother.

  Slut.

  Siren.

  Passive.

  Aggressive.

  Mad.

  Mentally unstable.

  Do you know she stabbed her ex?

  Two faces of Ellie. Good Ellie. Bad Ellie. Weak Ellie. Strong Ellie.

  The car stopped, and the doors started to open on the ground floor. I squeezed out the crack before they could even open fully. I hurried for the exit.

  “Hey!” the man called from behind me.

  I turned.

  “You dropped something.” He came loping toward me holding something out in the palm of his hand. Gold glinted. Martin’s cuff link. With the letters MCS.

  I snatched it from his hand without a word and rushed toward the hotel doors.

  By the time I got home I felt a bit better. I ran a scalding bubble bath and took an Ativan. Just to calm the noises that had started up in my head again. I blamed my dad for that. He’d triggered me. I wouldn’t take any more pills after this one.

  I sank into the bubbles and let the heat swallow me. I closed my eyes and relived sex with Martin.

  I touched myself between my legs. I felt a smile. There was no need to feel ashamed.

  Change the narrative, Ellie.

  I was no longer Doug’s wife. This was not going to be my house. I was not Chloe’s mother. I was moving to the city. Single city girl.

  “I travel a lot. But I can make long distance work.”

  I could be Martin’s lover. His girlfriend.

  But will you actually give me a second thought, Martin Cresswell-Smith, or is this just what you do when you travel, a lot?

  I sank down under the hot water and held my breath. As I had done so often after Chloe drowned, just trying to imagine what my poor baby had felt.

  Until I came up gasping, flailing for air, my hair streaming down my face.

  THEN

  ELLIE

  Just over two years ago, January 10. Vancouver, BC.

  I woke with a sense of something . . . different. My head felt thick, my mouth fuzzy with the taste of stale alcohol. It took a second for the sharp, bright reality to cut in.

  I sat upright.

  Martin. A stranger. Sex in a hotel elevator.

  I got up hurriedly and made coffee with the Nespresso machine I’d left unpacked. I sipped my coffee, watching the garden. The heavy green trees twisting and swaying. The dead heads in the flower beds. The leafless blueberry scrub. The berry bushes made me think of the time the bear had come. Thoughts of sex with Martin folded into a memory of Doug holding Chloe up to the window, him pointing to the bear. Chloe’s giggle.

  Sucked in deep by the image, I smiled sadly into my reflection on the windowpane. The memory was soft. Like a heavy cashmere coat. Familiar. Comforting. And it struck me—I could handle the memories. I could feel sad but smile at the same time. I didn’t need the medication. I’d truly, finally, come through the tunnel of grief. I’d even had sex with a new man.

  Was this what closure was? Not boxing the loss away but living with it. In a new space. Being able to cherish the memories and still think about tomorrow . . . and hope?

  I reached for my purse and found the napkin with Martin’s number. I picked up my phone, but nerves bit. I set it down, showered. I picked up the phone again while blow-drying my hair.

  I put it down.

  As I combed my hair I thought of his words.

  “Four more days at this hotel. I’m checking out on Monday. But seriously, Ellie, call. Anytime . . . I can make long distance work.”

  What if I didn’t call? He did not have my number. We’d be ships that had passed in the night.

  For a moment I wished I had given him my number. So it would be up to him.

  But it wasn’t. I wandered around my boxed-up house fingering his smooth gold cuff link. It was a sign. I took a deep breath and called him.

  The phone rang five times. I heard his voice.

  “You’ve reached Martin Cresswell-Smith. I can’t take your call right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  I hung up, trembling slightly from a punch of ne
rves that was intoxicating.

  The movers arrived and I went out for breakfast while they loaded the truck. I googled Martin from the coffee shop. Of course I did. Who wouldn’t? He had a LinkedIn profile that said he owned a private development company—CW Properties International. It linked to a company website with his bio. The website looked slick. It listed a portfolio of developments past, pending, and proposed. Images of his various sales teams around the world. A photo of Martin seated behind a massive glass desk in a voluminous Toronto office with a brilliant view of the city skyline. Contact info. He had no social media profiles. I liked that. It showed professionalism to me. Discretion. I broadened my search to the Cresswell-Smith name in Australia. A link to a story came up about Jeremy Cresswell-Smith. The brother Martin had spoken about—ex–rugby player and son of Malcolm Cresswell-Smith. I had his dad’s name now.

  I searched the name Malcolm Cresswell-Smith and followed the links to a company website and also found news stories about shopping malls and other real estate stuff. Then I discovered a business-magazine feature on Malcolm Cresswell-Smith. From the date on the article, it appeared that Malcolm Cresswell-Smith had retired several years ago. He lived with his wife on a horse farm in the Hunter Valley, not far from Sydney. His son, Jeremy, ran the company—Smith and Cresswell Properties—and his daughter, Pauline Rudd, was involved in marketing. She was also on the company board. No mention of Martin.

  I sat back and looked out the window. Pedestrians passed by the coffee shop hunkered into coats, with umbrellas pointing into a brisk winter wind filled with sleet. So Martin really had been cut out. Like he’d said.

  I felt a twinge of emotion for him.

  I dialed his number again. Got the same message.

  I left the coffee shop thinking that at least he had my number now from my missed calls. He could phone me. I was sure he would.

  But three days later, on Sunday evening, when Dana came by my new apartment to crack open a housewarming bottle of wine, Martin still had not called.