He started his life – his adult life, at least – as a lawyer. Just one of a thousand tiny cogs in the grist mill-wheels of a big-city firm, toiling away in a small office with a view of a smoggy skyline and bragging rights because he could look down on the tops of the buildings around him. Small thing to brag about: the tops of the buildings were ugly. All piping and air conditioning units. The ugly unseen portions of grand monuments of steel and glass that stood like pillars in a modern Stonehenge that, ultimately, was as mysterious and unknowable as the one of ancient days.
One of his friends – his real friends, not the other associates who smiled shark-smiles and secretly plotted to sabotage his cases and thus get ahead of him on the hamster-wheel race to partnership – got him a day trip on a dive boat. "Go," he said. "Get your nose out of the Milton case. Breathe real air. Exercise. I can't remember the last time I saw you outside and I'm entertaining serious concerns that you might in fact be a vampire."
Tim had no intention of going. He was in the middle of discovery on the case – a complex intellectual property case over the infringement (alleged!) of a patent detailing the creation and manufacture of a new kind of synthetic cork. Things were too busy. He had just received over fifty thousand pages of correspondence, engineers' notes, and a series of very polite "screw you" letters from opposing counsel. He intended to prepare at least seventy thousand documents to return in response to their document demands, along with an even more politely worded "bite me" letter.
But the unthinkable happened, two days before the trip: the case settled. It had been going on for almost four years, neither side giving an inch. Then, suddenly, all those marvelous billable hours just went up in smoke.
Tim found himself with the curse of free time. Nothing to do on the weekdays, let alone the weekend.
He went on the day trip.
The first few hours were spent going over the scuba gear, practicing in a pool. He hated it. He wished he could get back to his small but comfortable office, the soothing clutter of a case that had spun charmingly (expensively) out of control. He missed his secretary, and the way she talked to people so he didn't have to.
Then the group went out.
The ocean was different. The first five minutes of open water utterly entranced Tim. He saw nothing of import, but the feeling… it transported him.
Minute six he wondered how he had ever felt comfortable in the confined space of his office.
Minute eight he wondered how two businesses could spend four years and over six million dollars fighting over cork.
Minute ten he wondered how he could have been a part of that fight.
Minute eleven he decided to quit.
Minute one-hundred-twenty-one – exactly one minute after leaving the water – he called his office and gave notice.
He had no plan. No idea that he would become a diver, let alone a dive leader for a respectable dive outfit on a boat like The Celeste. But that was what he did. He had plenty of savings – hard to spend money when you never ventured forth into the real world – so he lived off his bank account until he was certified as a diver, then got odd dive-related jobs around the pier until he was certified as a dive master.
And then this job.
He was happy. Beyond happy. He was fulfilled. He had something he realized he had never felt as an attorney, billing five hundred an hour to clients so wealthy they could not only afford it, but expected to pay no less.
He had purpose.
And that purpose was to spend as much time as possible in the waves, and to help others do the same.
He loved every minute of it. From the great-grandmother who had gifted herself to her first dive at the ripe young age of ninety-two, to the family of two lovely parents and six even lovelier children they homeschooled, who rented the dive boat for three delightful days of learning and hands-on science, to that one time – a beautiful memory – when a group of six women on some kind of bonding trip rented the boat and spent the whole day not diving but for some reason fawning over him instead.
He loved it all.
But there were moments he loved less than others. Cleaning out the berths after any group of men between the ages of fifteen and thirty-five was involved always turned into a chore that had him smelling like beer from the elbows down, and he sometimes wondered how any woman could stand to marry any man, based solely on the still-lingering evidence of gaseous emissions he ran into in the closed cabin where the berths were.
And, of course, there were moments like this: moments where he had to submit to the driving will of some moron who knew how to dive – barely – and somehow thought he (it was always a he) had the keys to understanding the universe. Generally this person was the least competent person on the boat.
It certainly held true in this case. Geoffrey "Don't Call Me Geoff" Taylor III might not have been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but he had certainly nurtured the growth of a solid gold stick up his ass.
"You sure those should be stowed there?" he asked first thing, pointing at some air tanks that Tim was putting into a space that was – wait for it – specifically designed for stowing air tanks.
Tim plastered what he thought of as his "asshole" face across his expression. The "asshole face," or just "face" if he was in a hurry, was so named because it meant he was prepared to deal with an asshole, and to kiss that asshole's… well… ass.
Just part of the job, he thought. Then grinned even wider, and said, "Gosh, sir, I really think so. But if you believe there's been a problem can I recommend you talk to the captain about it?"
"Where is the captain?"
Tim shrugged. He knew exactly where Mr. Raven was, of course, but he suspected this time-waster's "knowledge" base would proceed along the path of least resistance. "Gee, sir, I'm really not sure. He could be in the galley, or in the wheelhouse, or maybe –"
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. You don't know." Geoffrey sneered, as though this lack of knowledge was the final nail on a coffin built of sheer stupidity.
But as obsequious as he was, or as jolly, or as over-the-top "ol'-buddy-ol'-seamate-me-lad" as he got with Geoffrey, the other guy's dick factor just rose slightly every time he opened his mouth.
Now was no exception.
"I told you," Geoffrey crowed. "I told you."
Mr. Raven had already cut the engine, which might make pulling in whatever Geoffrey had caught a bit easier, but also resulted in the man's voice carrying that much farther across the ocean.
Life is nothing but double-edged swords.
"I told you! I told you I'd catch something!"
"Ease up, bud," said Jimmy J. "Give it some slack, then –"
"Shut up!" Geoffrey barked. "You didn't even think I'd find anything, so you obviously –"
Tim was interrupted in his momentary self-reminder that it wasn't okay to pitch paying customers overboard by Geoffrey suddenly pitching backward into his arms. Whatever he was yanking had apparently darted toward the boat, creating abrupt slack against the combined pulling of Geoffrey and Jimmy J.
Jimmy J went down on his butt on the deck. "Ow," he said, sounding more startled than in pain.
"Okay, reel it in," said Tim. He wanted to punch himself when he did, knowing it would bring an inevitable response. As it did.
"Don't tell me what to do!" shouted Geoffrey. "I'm the one –"
His voice pinched off and his mouth opened to a circle so perfect it was almost funny. But any laughter Tim felt was chased away by the look in Geoffrey's eyes. The gloating, the triumph, the sense of superiority – all were gone.
In their place: fear. And maybe more.
Geoffrey raised a hand. Pointed.
Started to scream.
Tim saw why. He didn't scream, didn't even feel the urge. But his stomach dropped so hard and fast it was a wonder he wasn't driven right through the deck of the boat.
He picked up the rod. Began reeling in. Wondering how the thing had darted and zigged so hard and so fast.
&nb
sp; Musta been The Celeste. The thing must have hit our wake, been caught in some weird turbulence.
That made sense. But something in Tim's still-fallen stomach cried out.
Just drop it. Cut the line and leave it!
Can't do that.
You can. You should. You must!
He ignored the voice that counselled to leave the thing in the water.
Geoffrey's screams had dropped off a bit. Not completely, but enough that they were no longer piercing shards of broken glass pressing into Tim's ear canals. They had downgraded to thumbtacks pressing into his ear canals.
Jimmy J had seen Geoffrey's catch. He moved to the man, whispering in his ear. Trying to calm him. Jimmy J was good with people, and Tim knew if anyone could calm Geoffrey down Jimmy J could.
But Geoffrey kept screaming.
Tim kept pulling.
He felt something behind him. A presence. Nothing unusual, just the normal "someone else is here" feeling we all get from time to time. A sense left over from primal times when awareness of other people was not only important, but critical to survival.
Tim flicked a quick look over his shoulder. Saw who had come out of the salon.
Haeberle.
The guy gave Tim the creeps. He had brought excellent gear with him, and had signed on as an experienced diver. But he had fumbled his way along when stowing his gear. He seemed a bit ill-at-ease when the thin strip of land dropped below the horizon.
He was also huge, and seemed to like that fact. There are large men who exude cuddly happiness. They are teddy bears, normally so affable it's almost ridiculous. On the other end of the spectrum are men who are big and muscular and seem intent on making everyone around them know that it is by grace, patience, and largesse alone that they are allowed to survive. These large men stand a bit too close, a bit too straight. Intruding into personal space and standing with arms crossed over broad chests.
I own your ass. That was what they said – or tried to – with every movement, in every moment.
Haeberle was one of the latter type. He hadn't said more than fifty words the entire trip, but every one of them had been delivered in a low, slow, menacing voice. "Where do I bunk?" sounded more like, "I better get first pick of berths." "What can I eat?" felt more like, "If I don't get some food now, there will be trouble."
And he creeped the women out, Tim could tell. Not just Sue, but the other female fare, Mercedes. She was in her forties, attractive enough but unassuming and quiet. Every time Haeberle moved across a room either of them was in, he seemed to somehow change course just enough to bring himself within a foot or two of where they were. Looming above them. Seeming to challenge them with every movement.
Tim did not like the guy. Not because he caused trouble – he hadn't – but because he seemed like the kind who, when trouble came, would sit back and laugh. If not join in the mayhem himself.
The line was still hard to reel, but getting easier as The Celeste slowly drifted to a halt. Geoffrey's screams started to ramp up as his "catch" drew closer.
"Easy, man," said Jimmy J. "Let's just take a big ol' glass of Calm Down Juice, okay?"
Geoffrey's cries continued unabated. Got louder.
Haeberle stepped suddenly over to him. Stood close, stood tall.
"Quiet," he said.
He spoke in a voice so low that Tim could barely hear him. But Geoffrey must have seen something in the man's face that scared him more than the bundle that Tim was pulling in. His screams ended mid-shriek, gulped down before they could emerge.
"Thanks, man," said Jimmy J. He flashed a smile at Haeberle. Tim marveled again at how well his friend worked with the passengers.
"I didn't do it for you." Haeberle suddenly looked like violence was on his mind. Like he would like to let loose and tear someone – maybe everyone – apart. "He was getting on my nerves."
The big man threw a last hard look at Geoffrey, then moved to join Tim on the dive platform. Looking at what he had.
A moment later Sue, her dad, and Mercedes came out of the salon. All joining him on the platform, water sloshing over their feet. Watching what he was doing.
None of them screamed, at least. That was good.
Tim pulled it closer.
A body. Clad in the neoprene suit of a scuba diver. A tank trailing from it, attached by a hose that had tangled in the body's compensator and other gear.
The body bobbed in the waves. Facedown, the fishing line traveling under it, obviously caught on the front of the dead diver's body.
Other than the disarray of the tank and tangles, the body could have been just some snorkeler, face down in the waves. The suit looked unmolested. The arms trailed, clad in thick rubber sleeves that fed into heavy gloves that bound over the wrists.
Just a diver.
But he knew that was a lie. Knew it even before the body bumped against the dive platform hard enough to draw splashes and shouts from anyone who was –
(alive)
– awake, even barely conscious.
Then a swell moved over the mirror of the ocean. An unexpected wave that rolled the ship up and down, that pounded the diver against the dive platform… and flipped it over.
Geoffrey started screaming. Clamped it down when Haeberle grimaced at him, but couldn't quite contain his whimpering.
The body had no face. The soft tissue had been eaten away, corroded by water and by the tearing of small creatures that would have gone for the softest bits of this unexpected feast. Yellowed skull poked through in some spots. The rest was a uniform mask of waxy brown, the half-pickled flesh of someone too long adrift in the sea.
Geoffrey's hook was set deep in the body's eye socket.
Tim heard a gag, someone retching behind him. Not Jimmy J, not Geoffrey – who was still wheez/crying behind them. Which left Haeberle – not likely – Sue, Cal, or Mercedes. He didn't look, but his bet was on Mercedes, simply because neither Sue nor Cal seemed the type.
Especially not Sue. She was… special. Together. Interesting in a way that both baffled and delighted him.
The body bumped against the platform again. The platform was nothing more than a part of the aft deck that had been built out a bit to allow for easier ingress to the water. It hung about a foot over the water, a ladder at each end. But each time the waves rolled up and down, it smacked into the water with a wet splut, and the body seemed to time its forward motions so as to collide with the platform.
Tim suddenly had the weird feeling that the body was trying to get onto the boat. Still dead, still beyond any help, but trying nonetheless.
And when it got aboard….
He quashed that thought. It was ridiculous, it was beyond reason. He didn't believe in ghosts, didn't believe in spooks. Certainly didn't believe in dead divers climbing like wet zombies aboard his boat.
But he did believe in physics. In the power of waves and water, and realized that if the body swung forward at the wrong moment it would come under the platform. Pummeled down, under the boat. Who knew what damage that might do – to the boat or to the body?
He had to go in.
Without thinking about it – thinking wasn't a good idea considering what he was about to do – Tim shucked off the flip-flops he'd been wearing. That left him in a t-shirt and board shorts. That was good enough.
He dove in.
He splashed into the water close to the body, on the opposite side of the still-trailing fishing line. He didn't want to get wrapped up in the thick line, designed for nabbing sport fish.
How stupid would that be, to drown a foot from the boat.
Heeding his own advice, he gave the trailing line a wide berth, trying to pay attention to it and to the body, but at the same time close his vision to the grisly sight of the corpse's non-face.
He got two out of three. It seemed like he couldn't look away from that face. He paddled toward the body, and with every inch the visage got that much worse. Not just the brown, semi-congealed gel that had replaced the skin cov
ering the skull. Not just the hook biting deep into one dark, abandoned eye socket. The lips were gone, so was the nose – either chewed away or melted into the viscous brown of the rest of the head. The teeth were still whole, biting together and grimacing in a death rictus that went up beyond the gum line, exposed by the lips that had dissolved or been chewed away some time ago.
He was at the body. Grabbed it. He felt suddenly as though it might grab him. Just as it had tried to get on board the ship, now it would grip him, hold him close, sink into the deep. The ocean floor was about eight hundred feet below them here, and Tim shivered as he grabbed a handful of the wetsuit, his mind darkened by a vision of death at those crushing depths, dragged below by a dead man with no face.
The body didn't move. The flesh below the arm of the suit was both stiff and oddly flexible. Like the rubber of a tire – tough, but bendable. Not the feel of an arm bending at the joints, but of an arm bereft of bone, toughened to something not-quite-flesh.
The body rolled face down again. He was glad – the motion hid that awful face from his view. But then he shivered. Nothing to do with the cold water all around him. Rather, it was the idea that now the thing was calling others. Other dead divers, clutching from below, reaching up… up….
Get a grip!
He heard Mercedes retching again. Focused on the sound. That was reality. That was a normal reaction to an ugly death.
Focus. Pay attention to what's real.
He saw, now that the body had rolled face down and he was up close, that the wetsuit had tears up and down its length. Rips on the back and arms that hadn't been visible before, but as the body bobbed in the ocean they shifted, glinted. Dark water – or dark something – oozed out of them when they ground against one another.
"Jimmy J, help me here!"
"You want me to touch that thing?"
Tim almost laughed. It was such a perfect, completely Jimmy J thing to say. Delivered with utter seriousness, even as the kid grinned and moved to the edge of the dive platform.
Tim held to it. It was real. Not the images of grasping hands, the idea of a corpse come to life.
This was reality. A boat, a friend, passengers that would need reassuring.
The Deep 2015.06.23 Page 3