The Deep Abiding

by Sean Black

  He used an app on his phone to order up a car to take him somewhere he could pick up a set of wheels. It arrived less than five minutes later.

  They were just opening up at the car-rental place so it took him a while to complete the paperwork and for them to take his credit-card details. He picked out the only SUV on the lot, figuring that something a little larger wouldn’t do any harm.

  “Sir, would you like the additional insurance?” the lady asked him.

  “Yeah, give me everything,” he told her.

  She looked up from her computer. “Better safe than sorry, right?”

  Damn straight, thought Ty. Those were words to live by right now.

  She clicked the boxes, swiped his card through the reader, got him to sign the rental document, and led him outside to a new Ford Escape. She began to walk him around the car, checking for damage, standard car-rental practice.

  Halfway round, Ty plucked the key fob from her hand. “I’m kind of in a hurry. Plus I’m fully insured, right?”

  “That’s correct, sir. However . . .”

  Ty climbed into the driver’s seat, turned on the ignition, adjusted the mirrors, and gunned the engine as the woman stood there, a little nonplussed. He lowered the window. “Thanks for your help.”

  He didn’t catch her reply, he was too busy making the turn out of the lot and following the signs for the freeway.

  * * *

  Ty thought about calling Lock but decided against it. He didn’t want to wake him and Carmen. Not when they were on vacation.

  He settled in for the short drive, keeping an eagle eye on the road. The last thing he needed right now was any more problems with Highway Patrol.

  He tried Cressida’s cell phone. She still wasn’t answering. A knot of anxiety formed in his stomach. Or maybe it was just hunger. He really wanted to stop and get something to eat. Food would have to wait. He would take her to breakfast. They could discuss what she wanted to do next.

  * * *

  A half-hour later, he got off the freeway at exit seven, turning right at the bottom of the ramp towards the motel. He parked in back, scanning the other vehicles for the Honda.

  There was no sign of it.

  Strange.

  Ty knew that Lock would have told her to park there so that no one could see it while driving past. It was their standard operating procedure in situations like this. If someone was looking for you, you didn’t make it easy for them.

  It wasn’t complicated.

  If no one could see, then no one could find you.

  43

  I’m going to die here.

  The thought had come to Cressida as the sun rose, and the energy-draining heavy heat of the day began to build, leaving her soaked in sweat. She had done her best to push it away – no, you won’t, don’t be so melodramatic – but it kept filtering back into her mind like an unwelcome visitor.

  At some point she hadn’t so much gone to sleep as passed out, drifting in and out of the present until finally the sunrise and the slowly creeping heat of the morning woke her fully.

  Apart from the seething pain in her leg, she was thirsty in a way she couldn’t remember having been before. She would have done almost anything for a bottle of cold, fresh water. She had resisted scooping up some of the algae-green swamp water. Another hour and she wouldn’t be able to stop herself. She had never thought that such dank, scummy water, full of who knew what, could be so tantalizing.

  From her twisted vantage point she could glimpse the road. Or, rather, where she supposed the road had to be because Mimsy and whoever was helping her had obviously dragged tree limbs across the area where the car had crashed.

  Looking at it, Cressida couldn’t believe that anyone would fail to notice the disturbance. Then she remembered that, for one, people wouldn’t be looking. For another, they would be driving past at speed. The only way it would be obvious to someone was if they were walking, and that was hardly likely this far out of town.

  She had to face up to the same reality that she had last night. The cavalry weren’t coming. Or probably not in time. If she was going to survive, she had to make it happen.

  She shifted position, ducking under the seatbelt, and pushing into the footwell with her good leg. Pain cascaded through her with every fraction of an inch that she moved.

  Finally, she had maneuvered her body in such a way that if she pushed the door open, she’d be almost able to stand, using the center console as a floor.

  She popped the door open, and shoved up with her shoulder. It moved, only just clearing the frame by an inch, but it was something. Last night she hadn’t been able to get it open at all.

  Cressida gritted her teeth, clenching her jaw and tried to work herself further in under the door. The movement brought a fresh jab of pain. She pushed through it somehow and gave the door another shove. It moved up another few inches.

  Twisting around, she used her head to wedge it open. Gravity was against her but she held firm. She had never before thought about how heavy a car door was. She had never had to. They were things you opened, not objects you had to press with your head.

  She brought up her hands, and gave the door a solid push.

  Now what? The door was open, but if she took her arms away or shifted her body it would close again and she’d be back to square one. It was like being in a cellar, having to hold up a hatch and climb through at the same time. And not a regular hatch, but one that would only open as far as sixty degrees. And all with a broken leg.

  Keep going.

  Do not give up.

  She braced herself for another push. She brought up her good leg, and jammed it against the steering column. Her weight shifted onto her broken leg. It almost buckled under the strain. Somehow she managed to get the foot of her working leg against the steering column just in time. She used it push herself up. Her head, shoulders and upper torso cleared the gap between the car’s door and the frame.

  Almost there, she told herself. That had been the hard part.

  The edge of the door rested against her belly. The discomfort of the metal digging into her abdomen seemed to lessen the pain in her injured leg, the way stubbing your toe might take your mind off a persistent toothache. It wasn’t better so much as different and, as strange as it sounded, in the difference came some small measure of relief.

  She took a moment to catch her breath. All she needed now was to lever her lower body and drop into the water, then swim, or wade, to the roadside. If she could only make it the sixty or so yards to the road someone would be able to see her.

  After a few more deep breaths, she reached down and lifted the edge of the door. She used her arms and core to begin to lift herself out. The car was at such an angle that she wasn’t able to sit there once she got far enough. She would slide off. No, once she got far enough clear, she would have to drop down into the water.

  Her injured leg would take some of the impact. It was inevitable. Even if she tried to land on the good one. The thought made her stomach turn over.

  She held her position, suddenly grateful for those early-morning yoga classes in New York that had strengthened her body, although not nearly enough for a situation like this.

  Okay, Cress, you got this, she told herself. She would count down from three and then she would go, ready or not. It was that or sit there all day, getting weaker and more dehydrated by the second.

  Three. Two.

  That was when she saw it. An alligator. A big one. Maybe ten feet long, and two feet wide at its broadest point.

  It was lying in the water, semi-submerged, under the branches of a bald cypress tree. She didn’t know if it was looking at her, or the car, or anything at all, but its snout was pointed straight at her.

  Worse yet, it was between her and the road. To get there she’d have to crawl straight past it. Even if she took a long loop around, or chose a different route, she would be in the water with it. And who was to say it was the only ’gator in the immediate area? The water was mu
rky, and deep enough to conceal another dozen.

  She laughed at her bad fortune. It had taken a Herculean effort to haul herself up and out of the car. Now this.

  She scanned the area between where she was, and the bank that led up to the road. There was no easy route. She could either go direct, reducing her time in the water, or skirt around it. Whatever she did, she would be exposed.

  If it decided to go for her, she would have no chance. If it was determined.

  A thought occurred to her. She raised one arm above her head and began screaming and hollering. Maybe the commotion would unnerve it somehow, and it would move off.

  She kept screaming.

  The alligator stayed stock still.

  For all she knew she could be drawing in other predators. Did she sound like a crazy person that they would do their best to keep away from, or like an injured animal?

  She stopped, suddenly self-conscious. It hadn’t moved. It just sat there, staring at her.

  Come on, Cress, you need a plan here. It’s a dumb animal. You’re not going to be outsmarted by a freaking handbag, are you?

  What else could she do?

  Maybe, she thought, if she had a weapon. There was a tire iron in the trunk, but getting that out would be ten times harder than getting past the alligator and onto the road. The car was on its side. She wouldn’t be able to open the trunk. Not without help.

  What else? Come on. Come on. Think.

  A fresh jab of pain from her leg made her catch her breath. She looked over to her left. Just off to the right and about a quarter of the way toward the road was a pop ash tree.

  It might do as a staging post, although she had no idea how she could climb it with her leg like this. Even without an injury it wasn’t like it had big low branches she could grab onto and pull herself up.

  But it was something. Maybe she could break off one of the branches, and use that as a weapon. Or get behind it if the ’gator watching her made a move.

  It would be easier to reach than the road. That was for sure. And if she could make it to the ash, she’d be a quarter of the way there.

  What choice did she have? Stay perched on top of the Honda, scream and hope someone heard her before her voice gave out and she passed out from dehydration, or drink swamp water, get sick and dehydrate even faster?

  44

  Ty stood next to the Ford, cell phone to his ear, and waited for Lock to pick up.

  “You’re out?” said Lock, picking up.

  “She’s not here,” said Ty, still scanning the motel parking lot.

  “You’re sure? I told her to check in under another name.”

  “Ryan, I’m positive. I slipped Reception money and checked every room myself. The rental car isn’t here, and neither is she. I’ve tried calling her but either her cell is switched off or she’s not answering.”

  There was a momentary pause at the other end of the line, then: “What about other motels in the area? Maybe she was so freaked out she drove a little further on, checked in somewhere else.”

  “Not her style. She’s gone back there. I’m sure of it.”

  “Hundred percent positive?” Lock asked him.

  “No, but it’s the only thing that makes sense to me. She’s the kind of person who’s going to dig in, not back off.”

  Ty could hear Lock’s girlfriend Carmen in the background, asking Lock if everything was okay. “I’m sorry about this, Ryan. You’re on vacation, brother. You shouldn’t be having to deal with this.”

  “No such thing as a vacation in our world, Tyrone. You know that.”

  “I feel you. Listen, I’m going to head back to Darling. If you’re right and she really did get out of Dodge, then no harm done. But if she’s gone back . . .” He trailed off. “I dunno, it could be bad.”

  “You still have your gun?”

  “Yeah,” said Ty, giving his holster a reassuring pat. “I do.”

  “Okay. I’ll be there on the next flight.”

  “No, Ryan. There’s no need. I can handle this.”

  “Nothing wrong with having back-up.”

  Ty was starting to regret making the call. He didn’t want Lock to cut short his vacation for him. And, if he was being completely honest, his ego wouldn’t allow the thought of his partner coming in to help clean up his mess. He’d made the wrong call, and it was down to him to remedy that. “Ryan, I mean it. I appreciate the offer, but I’m good.”

  He could hear more hushed conversation between his partner and Carmen.

  “You’re sure?” said Lock.

  “Completely. Listen, if I need you, I’ll call.”

  “It’s not like I can just drive down there in a couple hours. If something happens . . .”

  “Nothing’s gonna happen,” said Ty. “I got this.” Lock started to object. He cut him off. “I’ll call you as soon as I find her.”

  He climbed into the Ford, and sped out of the motel parking lot, heading back towards Darling. As he drove, he kept calling the number he had for Cressida.

  She didn’t answer.

  45

  Ryan Lock closed the bathroom door as softly as he could. He didn’t want to wake Carmen any more than the phone call already had. She had asked him who it was. He’d told her not to worry and go back to sleep.

  He had promised her this vacation. In its entirety. Quality time together was precious.

  But something told him, a sixth sense he’d always relied upon, that he needed to get to Florida, and fast. That Ty might not need his help right this second, but that he would. If he was wrong it wasn’t the end of the world. He was sure Carmen would understand. She, as much as anyone, knew what she was getting into when they’d begun dating.

  Over a long career in the military and then the private security industry, Lock had come to believe that sometimes the most banal close-protection jobs had the potential to be the most dangerous. Very few people hired a bodyguard for no good reason. Sure, they were a fashion accessory in places like Hollywood, where image was everything, but for the most part close-protection operators were hired because of a threat to the principal’s life or general wellbeing.

  Obviously high-risk gigs, such as escorting someone in a failed state or ultra-high risk environment, took care of themselves. Everyone was on high alert, planning was meticulous, and the resources were at hand.

  The problem came with more casual jobs. Or tasks where you didn’t have the resources or time to know exactly what you were getting into. Ty’s Florida gig fell into that category. Even if it didn’t, an AWOL principal was by definition a major red flag. You couldn’t protect someone if you didn’t know where they were.

  Lock pulled up flight details on his phone. There was an American Airlines flight out of Grantley Adams at 06:40. He was about to book a seat, his finger hovering over the screen, when he stopped. Carmen wouldn’t want to cut short her vacation. And he wasn’t sure she’d want to finish it on her own. He put the phone down, and walked into the bedroom. She was sitting up, the bedside light on, reading a book.

  “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to get back.”

  “I figured.”

  “It’s Ty.”

  “I figured that too,” she said, smiling.

  He loved her smile. She smiled with her eyes, and, boy, did she have insanely gorgeous eyes to go with the insanely gorgeous rest of her.

  “You know,” she went on, “the one good thing is that when you’re whispering on the phone at two in the morning I know it’s not another woman you’re speaking to.”

  Lock laughed. His closeness with Ty was a running joke between them. When they had moved into their new apartment together, Carmen had even suggested they set aside a bedroom for Ty to have sleepovers.

  “His principal, the reporter he’s looking after, has gone missing and he got set up on a DUI bust. Someone spiked his drink, then called the car in to Highway Patrol. That’s what it looks like anyway.”

  “Then it sounds like you’d better go. What time’s
the flight?”

  “Six forty.”

  “So, let’s see. Ten minutes to pack. Twenty minutes to the airport. Two hour check-in.”

  She put down her book, and peeled back the sheet, revealing her sun-kissed naked body. “I think that just about gives us time for a proper goodbye.”

  Lock walked over to the bed. “I think you might be right, Ms. Lazaro.”

  46

  Eyes fixed on the pop ash tree that was maybe thirty yards from the car, Cressida began a fresh countdown, steeling herself for the short drop that she knew would bring her even more pain. There was no way she’d be able to keep all her weight off her injured leg. The thought of the impact made her wince, but there was nothing else for it.

  She started her countdown, muttering the numbers aloud to herself. “Three . . . two …”

  Palms down, she levered herself up, swung her good leg up and out, over the edge. She began to scoot round so she would have her back to the car. She couldn’t get her injured leg moving. She had to grab it with her hands to bring it with her. There was blood on her legs. It was soaked in. She didn’t roll it up. She didn’t want to see the damage. The agony of it was enough to deal with.

  Cressida checked the alligator. It was still there, statue-like, under the tree. “Okay, here goes,” she said, pushing off the top of the car and landing in the water.

  Her good leg took the impact but she tripped, her foot slipping out from under her. Her arm shot out instinctively, and she found herself falling onto her side, her face going under the water.

  As quickly as she could, she stood up. The water was shallower than she had thought. About two and a half feet. It came above her knees but below her waist.

  She had to stop herself laughing. Something about this was almost absurd, like standing in a very deep puddle, only one that extended for thousands of miles behind her. She swished her hand through the water, clearing the green scum that lay on top.