The Deep Abiding

by Sean Black

  RJ scraped the bill of his cap against his head. “Like I said, it’s been a while since I’ve been out here but I reckon maybe another fifteen minutes. Give or take.”

  The follow-up question hung in the air. How long until Mimsy got there with Cressida? How far behind them were they?

  And beneath all of those, would they make it in time? Or was she already dead?

  From his time in the military, Ty knew how ultimately useless those questions were. Right now, their mission objective was to chase down the other boat. They couldn’t legislate for reaching it in time. All they could do was stay focused on the task in hand.

  Deal with what was in front of them, which was swampland and lots of it.

  As they edged between another two clumps of trees there was a thrashing sound from the propeller at the back of the boat. Ty spun round to see something in the blades, tangled between them and one of the vertical rudders.

  RJ cursed loudly. His hand shot down to the engine control, and he flicked a switch, killing the engine.

  As the propeller blades slowed Ty saw that a long strand of vine had worked its way into the propeller cage somehow. It was wrapped around the blades, stopping them turning properly.

  Looking around, they were in thigh-high water, surrounded by clumps of trees, a thin layer of pollen coating the surface of the water.

  RJ moved to the back of the boat. He poked his fingers through, trying to get hold of the vine, or whatever the heck it was, that had got caught in the blades. Ty started to the back of the boat to help him.

  It began to tip, one side lurching down close to the surface of the swamp, water threatening to capsize the vessel. Ty quickly adjusted his position, moving sideways to place his considerable weight back in the center, and steady the small craft. “Sorry,” he said to RJ.

  “It’s my fault. I wasn’t concentrating.”

  “Tell you what, let’s save the recriminations for when we get ourselves out of this almighty shit show. How’s that sound?”

  “Deal,” said RJ. “Man, I didn’t even think to bring my tools with me.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” said Ty, with a smile. “You were in a hurry. We both were.”

  Ty had a thought. He always carried a multi-tool with him, either a Gerber, Leatherman, or similar. It was a habit he’d acquired from Lock, who had acquired it when he’d served in the Royal Military Police specialist close-protection unit. Deployment to far-flung locales had meant that calling for a tow truck or roadside rescue were often not a possibility. If you were on your own in the middle of East Africa when your Land Rover broke down, you’d better be able to fix it. Hence the multi-tool.

  “Have Gerber, rule the world,” was how Lock had put it once.

  Ty dug out his Gerber, and took a closer look at the propeller, tracing the route of the vine that had wrapped its way around the blade all the way down to the prop shaft. He made his way down toward the cage that enclosed the prop, taking each step with care.

  The boat bobbed in the water, but didn’t tip. He squeezed past RJ. He got a better angle as he got closer. He would have to cut it close to the prop or it would just wind back around when they started up again. He opened the Gerber, and pushed the small saw blade through a gap in the cage near the prop shaft. Thankfully he had a strong grip, the result of lots of hours of dead hangs, pull ups and deadlifts.

  Keeping his hand tight around the handle, he managed to saw away at the root of the vine, aware that they were busy squandering time they simply didn’t have.

  As he worked, fraction by fraction, he reminded himself of another military mantra.

  Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.

  Finally, he sawed through the vine, freeing it from the shaft. Squeezing his fingers through the cage, he got hold of the other end, and pulled it through with a couple of firm wrenching movements.

  The vine came away in his hand. It was a lot tougher and more fibrous than it looked. It was lucky RJ had cut the engine or it would have burned out.

  Ty flung it as far as he could from the boat. It landed in the branches of a pop ash, safe from doing them any more harm.

  “Okay, let’s get going,” said Ty, a minor victory won.

  He clambered back to his position at the front of the boat as RJ reached down to restart the engine.

  It coughed, spluttered into life, and died. The propellers didn’t move.

  He exhaled, gave it a few seconds and tried again.

  A third time and Ty’s heart began to sink into his boots.

  “Someone’s gonna have to get out, and hand start it. Only way,” said RJ.

  Ty looked from RJ, with his hands on the controls and all the knowledge of how to keep the engine moving once it caught, to the murky green waters. It looked like that someone had to be him.

  62

  “You remember those old movies about World War Two where they’d have to start the fighter plane’s propeller by hand?”

  Ty was standing knee-deep in the swamp water, doing his best not to fall over, and wondering how he’d be able to yank one of the propeller blades with the force needed to get it started, but without it taking one of his hands clean off at the wrist. So far he wasn’t sure he could. But right now it looked like he didn’t have much choice. “Haven’t really seen that many, RJ, but I have an idea how this goes.”

  “Okay. Well, when you’re ready. Try to get yourself out of the way if it catches.”

  “That was the plan,” said Ty, trying to keep any hint of sarcasm out of his voice and not doing the best job of it. He reached up to the nearest blade, grabbed its upper edge and yanked it as hard as he could. It moved down, then stopped. Ty took a breath. His pants legs were soaked, and he could feel the cool mud of the swamp bottom oozing into his boots.

  The toughest part was trying to keep his balance while finding enough downward force. It would have been a hell of a lot easier standing on solid, even ground.

  He already had visions of pulling down so hard that the momentum folded him at the hip, carried him forward and moved his head into the propeller blades at the very moment they caught. Of all the ways he had considered he might buy the farm, being decapitated by an airboat had never entered the betting. He’d always figured he’d be shot and bleed out alone in a motel room. Something gritty like that. Not die like he was going for a Darwin award.

  He focused back on Cressida, alone with the Everglades’ answer to Annie Wilkes, and a guy whose day job was flipping burgers.

  “Let’s go again,” said Ty, straightening, taking a fresh grip, and tensing his core muscles.

  “Okay,” said RJ.

  “Three, two, one,” said Ty.

  He gave it a fresh yank. The blade clicked round, but nothing more.

  “One more time,” said Ty. “Man, this really is like being back in the Corps.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Doing something dumb up to my knees in mud, with every chance of something biting me in the ass when I least expect it.”

  He grabbed another blade, reaching up as far as he could to get some good downforce.

  “Come on, you son of a—” He yanked, pulled his hands out of the way.

  It turned, and took.

  The propeller catching and turning. The blades picking up speed in seconds, creating a blast of wind that almost blew him off his feet and sent him tumbling ass over elbow into the swamp.

  He took a few steps back as RJ tapped the pedal, revving the engine.

  “Okay, Ty, close the cage.”

  Ty moved round to the other side to secure the cage that had done such a lousy job of shielding the blades from objects inanimate or otherwise.

  * * *

  RJ twisted round in his seat and watched as Tyrone moved to lock the cage. He’d begun to think that the propeller dying like that was some kind of a sign. A sign that he shouldn’t be out there. That he had made a terrible error of judgment.

  Likely the young reporter was dead by now. Lyle and
Mimsy had been ahead of them before this delay. What chance did they have of intercepting them in time?

  And then what?

  He had spilled his guts to this man. Even giving up the guilt of his wife.

  Now he felt unsure, conflicted.

  Confessing had felt good in the moment. But how would he feel when they were both back in Darling, facing down Mimsy and the might of the law.

  Sue Ann had warned him. Justice was the preserve of the rich, and they were dirt poor. It was all well and good being noble, but it didn’t always work out for people like him and Sue Ann.

  If he wanted to change his mind, there would be no better time than now. Ty was out of the boat. He would never get back if RJ left him here.

  All he needed to do was tap down on the metal pedal at his foot. He’d be clear and gone before Ty could react.

  He looked back at Ty, exhausted, soaked in sweat. A man determined to save someone he barely knew. A man who had served his country and been prepared to die for it. A man RJ would never have spoken with, but also a man he had come to respect in a very short space of time.

  Ty began to wade around the side of the boat. RJ could still go. Tap that pedal and be gone. Wash his hands of this whole sorry mess.

  The big Marine reached out a huge clenched fist to him. “Teamwork, baby,” he said to RJ, offering the bump.

  RJ’s decision was made in that moment. He closed his hand. They bumped knuckles. RJ opened his hand, and grabbed Ty, helping him to crawl belly first back onto the boat.

  63

  They were close now. Cressida knew it. Not from anything that had been said—barely anything had been said. That was part of how she knew they were drawing close to their final destination. Her final destination. And, if Mimsy got her way, her grave.

  The last ten minutes or so, any chatter had stopped. Mimsy had cut out the wisecracks. There had been no more taunting.

  Lyle, already silent for the most part, had sunk inside himself even further. Every time Cressida looked at him he turned away.

  There were other ominous signs. Mimsy had relented on the question of water, and Lyle had handed Cressida another bottle, which she had gratefully chugged down.

  He had asked Mimsy if he could have a smoke. She had agreed to that too, as long as he held his cigarette over the side of the boat when it wasn’t in his mouth, and made sure the smoke didn’t blow into her face.

  Mimsy, it turned out, was as passionate an anti-smoker as she was a racist. Cressida made a mental note of that for the article she would likely never get to write now. She had thought about asking if she could smoke the Marlboro that Lyle had palmed to her. She had decided against it, even though she was sure it would annoy Mimsy, and confirm the old lady’s prejudices about ‘her people’.

  Smoking, like so many other things, was an activity that Cressida enjoyed the thought of more than the reality. A bit like six a.m. runs in Central Park. It was one of the things that looked cool when other people were doing it.

  Beyond the lack of chatter, her two companions’ body language had undergone a subtle metamorphosis. Where Lyle had seemed jittery, he now appeared stoic. He had the vibe of a man steeling himself to do something he wasn’t looking forward to.

  Mimsy sat bolt upright, all her attention directed on piloting the small airboat through trees that seemed to have grown larger than the ones they’d seen up until now.

  There were ’gators here, too. Cressida had seen them. More of them as they moved yard by yard through the swamp. There had been a couple of snakes too. Lyle had pointed them out to her. Non-native species, he had explained. They had escaped from people’s homes and wound up here where they had bred and pushed out the native species.

  There was a metaphor in that, but Lyle seemed oblivious to it. Cressida noted it as another interesting interlude for the big exposé that would never appear with her byline under it.

  Which wasn’t to say she had resigned herself to her fate. She was just being realistic. With her bum leg, and Lyle having the shotgun, she didn’t rate her chances of turning this around. She was down by six in the last minute of the game, and the other team had the ball in her half of the field.

  But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to try. There was always the interception and Hail Mary pass into the end zone.

  And, if nothing else, if she had to go, being shot once or twice, through the head or chest, sounded infinitely less distressing than being left out here to be the next meal of some ’gator and their family.

  She fiddled with the cigarette in her hand.

  Mimsy had been super squirrely about Lyle smoking in the boat. As soon as he’d taken his last drag, she had told him to make sure it went into the water.

  Cressida could only assume that a cigarette in a gas-fueled boat was the reason for her tetchiness. She didn’t know if the fuel they were using was flammable, but Mimsy seemed neurotic about it, and that was all she needed. A small neurosis would do the job.

  She tapped the end of the cigarette into her open palm and gave Lyle her most plaintive look. “Do you mind?” she said.

  He reached for his lighter. Mimsy coughed, stopping him before he could spark it.

  “I promise I’ll dispose of it safely,” Cressida told her. “And I won’t blow the smoke anywhere near you.”

  Mimsy made a harrumphing noise of assent and Lyle flicked the lighter wheel with his thumb. He held the flame up to the tip of the cigarette.

  Cressida took a draw, and blew the smoke carefully away from Mimsy. “Thanks.”

  She drew the next puff in as deep as she could. She began to cough. Not even having to fake it. She kept coughing, and doubled over. Lyle went to thump her on the back. She could see the shotgun loose between his thighs, not tightly clamped, like it had been.

  She half dropped, half flicked the cigarette up and over her shoulder, toward Mimsy, the back of the boat, and presumably the fuel tank.

  She held up her hand in apology and kept coughing as Mimsy flipped out.

  “Lyle! Lyle! Get that the heck out of the boat. Before we have a fire.”

  Lyle lumbered into action, first turning side on, so he could try to swing his legs around the edge of the seat, reach down to grab the lit cigarette before it rolled back any further.

  Cressida put out her hand towards his side, as if reaching out to him in support. Her hand kept moving. She braced herself for the sharp jolt of the pain that was coming as she pushed off with her good foot, launched off her seat and grabbed for the shotgun.

  Torn between reaching for the errant cigarette, and keeping hold of the shotgun, Lyle flailed his arms. His left hand caught Cressida’s lip, opening a cut as it smashed into her lower teeth.

  Mimsy, meanwhile, leaned down from her chair and threw a mean roundhouse punch. Cressida ducked, and the closed fist whistled over the top of her head.

  Cressida had one hand around the barrel of the shotgun. She reached over with the other, trying to get that on it too.

  The cigarette abandoned for now, Lyle spun back round and tried to wrestle the gun from her. Meaty paws, used to spending all day doing heavy work over a hot stove, began to prise painfully at her fingers.

  It was a losing battle and Cressida knew it. There was no way she was going to beat a man a hundred pounds heavier than her in this fight.

  Time for another strategy, she told herself, as Mimsy kicked out, catching her shoulder painfully. It wasn’t much of a kick, but in her present state it jarred her more than it should have.

  She gritted her teeth and pressed on. She took her hands off the gun without any more struggle. “Okay, okay,” she said.

  Lyle did what she hoped he would. He began to lift the gun up and into him by the barrel. As he did so, Cressida reached down, and felt for the trigger, falling onto one knee, her other hand up, blocking his view with it and her upper body, in a gesture of surrender.

  He kept his hands firmly around the barrel, like a toddler pulling their favorite toy into their
chest to save themselves from having to share it.

  Cressida’s free hand, which Lyle couldn’t see, closed around the trigger guard. Her finger slipped inside, closing around the trigger. She squeezed and kept squeezing. Her angle was all off. It took everything she had. Finally, it discharged.

  Lyle flew backwards, blood and cartilage spraying over the three of them as his lower jaw exploded into fragments. The round continued on up, taking off the front of his nose, and scraping the overhang of his forehead.

  He let out a distended scream, blood pouring from what was left of his mouth. His grip on the barrel loosened. Cressida moved her free hand down, and wrapped it around the stock, prising the gun from him.

  She lost what little footing she had, and began to fall back. The barrel of the gun went up and over her head as she tumbled back.

  Mimsy launched herself from the pilot’s seat before Cressida had the chance to recover. She fell on top of her, making sure to shift some of her weight onto Cressida’s broken leg. Cressida let out a yelp of sudden pain as Mimsy dug an elbow into the side of her knee. The boat was rolling hard to one side. The back of Cressida’s head was over the edge. She still had her hands around the shotgun, but only just. As the pain surged through her leg, she could feel her grip weakening with every second that passed.

  Mimsy kept digging her elbow in, working it right into the joint, making it as painful as she possibly could. At the same time, her other hand kept the shotgun pushed back, stopping Cressida from getting the business end pointing at her.

  On the other side of the airboat, maybe less than six feet away, Lyle was staggering around, zombie-like. His hands had come up to his face as he tried to staunch the blood that was pouring out. The sound he made, somewhere between a cry, a groan and a scream, was of pure distress.

  Cressida, locked in her death battle for the gun with Mimsy, could hear him trying to form words. She couldn’t make them out. The damage to his jaw and mouth was catastrophic.