The Deep Abiding

by Sean Black

  Reaching over with her other hand, she pulled on the sleeve of her jacket so that it covered the palm of her hand, her dress riding up over her belly. She managed to get her hand down, and move her hips so that she was partly on her side.

  Narrowing her eyes, she scanned the bank. No one was there. Not that she could see. Her mind had been playing tricks on her.

  She looked from the bank to the trees, then to the water surrounding the car with its pop ash and reeds. The ’gator was still there, unmoving, sunk half into the mud, keeping cool while she baked. Waiting for its moment.

  Part of her thought about sliding down from the car into the cool water. Allowing whatever would happen next to happen. But the primal part of her, the lizard part that lay at the base of every human brain, held her back.

  There was sound now. A low hum, like an engine, but not a car engine. More like a boat of some kind. It was far off in the distance but she could hear it.

  This time she decided not to get her hopes raised. A second ago she was sure someone was watching her from the bank only to look and see no one there. Maybe the sound of the boat was another piece of her imagination that had broken off and floated to the front of her mind.

  * * *

  RJ had retreated back to his truck. He dropped the tailgate, and climbed up to sort through his gear. He had rope, an ax, some camping gear, spare oil, and some offcuts of lumber.

  In the cab he also had his shotgun, and a hunting rifle.

  It might just be enough to get himself out there, get her off the car, and back to the road. He could use the shotgun on the ’gators if he needed to. There weren’t many who would hang around if you put a round near them, never mind in them. They were scavengers, opportunists.

  The only ones you had to worry about were the ones you didn’t see when the water was too deep. Then no amount of firepower would save you. They could glide on up, and take you at the knee, drag you under and spin you in that death roll. Up close and personal, a man was no match for a big ’gator, even with a shotgun.

  He grabbed the rope, the ax, a couple of metal tent stakes and the shotgun. He started back to the bank. He would plant the stakes in the ground, and wade out with the rope, tie it off on the car, and that would give him a line to hang onto as he dragged her back.

  Any ’gator made a move and he would clear it out with the shotgun. One good blast would be sufficient to buy him the time required to get her back onto dry land.

  He could call the cops. He had thought about that. But he needed to be the first to her.

  He didn’t know what she had or hadn’t seen. What she would or wouldn’t say.

  If he saved her perhaps he could persuade her that was sufficient. She would owe him, and the price he would charge was her silence.

  She could tell people it was a regular car crash, a temporary loss of control on an unfamiliar road. If she said it, they would believe her. She could go back to New York, and they could return to their lives. No one need ever know.

  Silence in return for a life. It seemed like a bargain when he thought of it like that.

  He stepped back off the road, and started scoping out where to place the tent stakes. He needed somewhere they would hold but also somewhere close to the water’s edge so that he could keep a good hold of the rope on the way back.

  He heard the deep bass whir of the airboat. It was coming in. He couldn’t see it yet, but it was a sound he was familiar with.

  He stood stock still, scanned the swamp and watched as a wash of water rose toward the bank. The boat rounded a stand of pop ash trees about fifty yards out from the car.

  RJ saw who was onboard, and bile rose from his stomach to bite the back of his throat. Lyle was piloting it in while Mimsy stood behind him. They were headed straight for the half-submerged car.

  Profanity spilled from RJ’s mouth. He turned tail and hustled back up the bank, seeking cover before they saw him. Halfway up, he threw himself onto the ground. He turned belly down and watched as the boat’s engine cut out and it inched in closer to the Honda.

  56

  Rescue.

  Cressida didn’t know of a word that had ever sounded sweeter. There was a boat and it was heading straight for her. It had a huge fan mounted in a cage on the back that whipped up the water behind it as it glided nearer.

  A boat rescue made sense, she thought. There would be contact with the water, however shallow. No worry about ’gators, or snakes, or anything else lurking nearby.

  The pain in her leg seemed to recede a little. It was the same sensation a person might have when they’d just been given some powerful painkillers. Before they could even hit the stomach, the pain would dull as the mind anticipated what was to come.

  Hope had to be the most powerful drug of all. Especially if you feared it was gone for good.

  She could already envision being plucked from the car, strapped into a seat, or laid out on a deck. Water. There would be water. Then something to dull the hot poker that she felt had been somehow inserted into the marrow of her leg.

  A trip in an ambulance, sirens blaring. People with her. More water, probably an IV with fluids to replace all the salts that had washed out in sweat. Oxygen, maybe. Being able to lie down on a gurney, shielded from the baking sun. A cool, dark womb with all manner of modern technology plugged in, restoring her.

  Then a hospital room. In Miami. With more water and then, when her stomach had settled, some food. And a television so she could watch her own rescue on the news – heroic reporter almost killed tracking down cold-case murderers.

  There would be police. Maybe even FBI agents. Oh, the delight she would take in telling them what she knew.

  Maybe someone would bring in her laptop after a few days and she could set to work on the story. Only it was no longer a long article on a website. This was more New York Times, Washington Post, maybe even a book. No, definitely a book. The story of her aunt and then herself. Justice delayed but not denied.

  But first, water. Sweet, cold, fresh water.

  With each new part of the fantasy she was building in her imagination, she felt better. She was going to make it. She was going to live.

  She tried again to raise herself on her elbow. It looked like there were two people on board. The sun was behind them. She could see them only in silhouette. They both looked large, and doughy, not like park rangers or cops.

  But what did that matter? As long as they had a boat and could get her to land, they could be dressed up as Santa Claus or the Easter bunny for all she cared.

  As long as they got her off the side of this damn car. Before the bugs that were still swarming around had eaten her straight down to the bones.

  The boat’s fan cut out and the breeze it had brought died down. The water became still again. She could see a man on the boat. He had stood up, and was making his way to the side. The other person onboard seemed to be steering it in.

  It was coming in side on to the underside of the car.

  She tried to push off with her hands, and get some leverage to sit up. That way he could help her swing over, and drop down into the boat. If he put his hands under her armpits she could ease down without jacking up her bad leg again.

  They were talking to each other. In whispers. That struck Cressida as strange.

  She blinked salty sweat from her eyes, and tried to focus.

  She saw their faces for the first time.

  No, she told herself, it can’t be. She was imagining it. It couldn’t be them. They had left her out here to die.

  Why would they come back like this? Why would they return to the scene of the crime? What sense did that make?

  Inch by inch the boat edged closer. Bringing Mimsy Murray with it.

  They were close enough that she could see Mimsy smiling at her. It was that same damn faux-concerned smile as before. A smile that she already knew was a harbinger of bad things to come.

  Cressida tried to scoot back down the side of the car toward the rear driver’s-sid
e door. The pain was too immediate, and she knew that a few more feet and she would run out of room.

  The man, Lyle she remembered his name was, was reaching out his arms to her. “Come on, let’s get you off this thing.” He turned back to Mimsy. “Get it in closer.”

  The boat inched down, bringing him with it. He lunged for her, and she almost slipped off the car. He grabbed her wrist, and began to pull her with him.

  She tried to break his grip. It was no contest. He was way too strong. He dragged her along the side of the car. He reached out his other hand and managed to grab her at the waist. He hooked his arm around her, and hauled her off the car.

  He almost lost his balance. He fell back, and she landed on top of him, catching her bad leg. She screamed.

  He struggled, getting back on top of her. His knee dug into her stomach. As he scrambled back up, his knee forced all the air from her lungs. She reached down to her bad leg, almost sobbing again with the pain.

  “Oh, don’t be such a baby,” said Mimsy, staring down at her with that same smile.

  Lyle moved out of the way. The engine started up, the fan whipping round faster and faster until it was spinning so fast it was a static blur.

  Mimsy reached down, and lifted Cressida. She placed her in one of the two rear seats.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Mimsy instructed Lyle.

  The boat was moving off, skirting round the car, and sending a shallow wave crashing all the way back to the road. The prow pointed out, away from land. It began to skip over the surface of the water, weaving in and around the pop ash trees.

  Mimsy reached down into a cooler, coming up with a bottle of water. She twisted off the cap and handed it to Cressida. “Small sips,” she told her.

  Cress lifted the bottle to her lips as land disappeared behind them. Now there was only swamp on every side. They kept moving. She snuck a look at Mimsy who caught her in the act.

  “You didn’t think we’d just leave you there, did you?” she said to Cressida, in a way that chilled her to the very core.

  57

  The Ford rode up on two wheels, threatening to flip, as Ty threw it into the corner. The sirens were more distant. But they were still coming.

  With arrest a near certainty now, he was heading for Mimsy’s house. If anyone knew what had happened to Cressida it had to be her. He planned on getting her to talk, one way or the other.

  She would cough up where Cressida was, and he would deal with the consequences of how he’d got the information later on. If it meant prison time, then so be it. He had already made his peace with that. He had been lucky enough to dodge that fate after events in Long Beach. Maybe there was only so long you could face up the law before the law faced you up.

  His cell phone rang. It looked like a local number but it wasn’t one he recognized.

  If he’d had to guess he would have said it was the cops trying to save themselves the inconvenience of chasing him around southern Florida. If it was, they were likely to be disappointed.

  He eased his foot off the gas and answered.

  “Ty Johnson.”

  “Mr. Johnson. It’s RJ.”

  RJ?

  “We spoke this morning.”

  “I remember, but I’m kind of busy right now, RJ. Is it important?”

  “I’d say it is. I found your friend, but she’s in trouble.”

  Ty took his phone away from his ear and did a double-take. He checked his rearview mirror for red flashing lights behind him. Now would not be a good time to be apprehended. It was clear. The only thing he could see behind him was the dust from his tires.

  “Where is she?”

  “You know the dock with the airboats. It’s out between Adelson’s and my place.”

  Ty had a vague idea.

  “Kind of.”

  “You think you can find it?”

  He looked around. “I’m not sure.”

  “Okay, where are you now.”

  He scanned the road for some kind of landmark. A sign that looked like something from the 1950s. A mailbox with a family name on it. Anything.

  He kept the Ford rolling. Up ahead was a gas station. He relayed the information to RJ.

  “Okay, you’re real close. There’s a turning on your left about a quarter-mile on down. Take that, and when you come to the fork, go left. It’s at the end of that road.”

  “Left and left at the fork,” Ty repeated.

  “That’s it.”

  “Is she there?”

  “Just meet me there,” said RJ. Then he was gone.

  58

  The Ford skidded to a halt, gravel and stones spinning up into the air. The driver’s door exploded open, and Ty got out. He looked around the rickety old dock, scanning the half-dozen boats that were either bobbing gently in the water at their moorings, or loaded onto trailers on the nearby grass.

  RJ’s pickup truck with the Confederate-flag bumper sticker was there, but no sign of the man. Ty kept one hand on the butt of his SIG, on edge and wary that this could be a trap. If Cressida was here he couldn’t see her either, or the Honda for that matter.

  “Hey, over here!”

  RJ’s head popped up from behind one of the huge airboat propellers.

  Ty walked down the dock towards him. “So where is she?”

  RJ nodded out to the wetlands beyond the dock. “Somewhere out there.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? What do you mean she’s out there?” said Ty.

  “Listen, we don’t have time to talk about it now. I was just making sure I had enough gas,” he said, lifting a five-gallon red metal container. “Get on board. I’ll explain what’s happened on the way.”

  Ty held his ground for a minute. “If you’re messing me around . . .” he said.

  “I know, you’ll kill me.”

  “That’s what I’ll do if you’re lucky.”

  RJ hauled himself up into the airboat’s elevated pilot’s seat. “Like I said, we don’t have time.”

  Sirens whooped somewhere off in the distance as the sheriff’s deputies criss-crossed the roads around Darling, hunting for Ty. It didn’t seem like he had much of a choice.

  He couldn’t stay there without them catching up with him. And he had no useful lead or idea where Cressida was, other than the man in front of him who was telling him he knew, kind of.

  It was this or try to get to Mimsy before the cops got to him.

  RJ stared at him, frustrated. “I can’t do this on my own, man.”

  “Do what?”

  “Get your friend away from Mimsy.”

  That was enough. Ty clambered into the shallow fiberglass-hulled craft, RJ sitting above him.

  “Stay in the middle,” RJ told him. “These things tip real easy.”

  He flicked three switches on the engine-control panel to his right-hand side on and then off. He pressed a rubber-domed button, like he was priming a lawnmower. The engine choked into life. The propeller started to turn, picking up revolutions rapidly.

  RJ tapped gently on the metal pedal and the airboat took off, skimming over muddy-green water, pushing reeds out of the way as it moved out and into the Everglades.

  The din from the engine was deafening for the first few seconds. Then it seemed to die down slightly. Ty remembered that the original airboats, as the name suggested, used aircraft propellers and engines. He’d seen them once while on duty in Iraq, in the southern part of the country, an area that had been one of the largest wetland areas in the world until all-round asshole Saddam Hussein had ordered most of it drained, destroying the ancient way of life of many Marsh Arabs in the process.

  RJ leaned down as he expertly moved the stick that controlled the vertical rudders at the back, which directed the airflow and thus the direction of travel. Watching him, Ty noticed that when he pushed the stick forward they moved right, and when he moved it back they went left.

  “Oh, one more thing, these things don’t have any brakes, so if you see anything holler, and hol
ler loud. I’ll ease up on the gas and we can cruise back round.”

  Ty knew there had to be a reason why he’d never had the urge to travel by airboat before. It was pretty much an aircraft propeller hooked up to a big engine, and stuck to the back of a big chunk of fiberglass. If it hit anything solid it would sink like a rock into the swamp.

  It was only now that he realized neither he nor RJ was wearing a life jacket. Not that the water looked deep, but he was sure that could change as they got further out.

  He twisted round so he could shout up to RJ. “So why do you think she’s out here with Mimsy?”

  “I don’t think, I know. I saw Mimsy and Lyle pick her up and put her on Lyle’s boat.”

  “What?” shouted Ty.

  “If I tell you what happened, promise not to take it out on me? I didn’t much like the way you were hanging on to that gun when you got here.”

  “I’m not promising anything,” said Ty. “Either tell me or don’t.”

  They had moved out into a carpet of sawgrass. It extended far off into the horizon.

  “Last night, I guess your reporter friend was out looking for some answers. Mimsy and Lyle ran her car off the road into the swamp. Then they left her there to die, covered up where she left the road so no one would notice it.”

  “She was trapped in the car?”

  “Not exactly,” said RJ. “She was pretty banged up from what I saw, but I think she was more worried about one of the ’gators picking her off on the way back to the road. I was about to get her out of there when Mimsy and Lyle showed up and took her.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Ty. “You knew she was there, but you only went to rescue her just now?”

  RJ tugged at the brim of his John Deere cap, pulling it down lower over his eyes. “Guess my conscience got to me.”

  “And what about Mimsy?” Ty asked.

  “I guess once she saw all the sheriff’s deputies crawling all over the place she figured it was only a matter of time.”

  “So her and Lyle . . .”