The Lower Deep

by Hugh B. Cave

  Funny. It was Alice who had brought them together. The girls at school had worked up an evening of St. Joe folk singing and dancing. Having helped design the sets, Alice felt she had to attend the performance, and he had gone along because he was really interested. Rain was falling, so he took her in the Jeep.

  The performance over, Alice had volunteered his services in driving Dannie home, saying she would wait at the school until he returned so no one would have to ride in the back. Alice enjoyed demonstrating her power over him in such ways, especially to other women.

  So Dannie and he were alone together, and something happened. Some magic or chemistry.

  To this day he could not define or explain it. It wasn't a product of anything said, for they scarcely spoke. Nor did he touch her at that point, except to take her arm while walking her to her door.

  Then the rain suddenly became a downpour, and she stood with him on the veranda while he waited for a lull that would let him return to the Jeep.

  A longish time passed while they waited. The rain pounded the veranda roof over their heads and turned the road into a river. And after a while he realized he was standing there in the dark with an exquisite woman who, unlike Alice, was not in any way trying to gain some advantage over him.

  It was a novel experience. From time to time their hands or bodies made contact as one or the other moved. In such a situation Alice would have been coy, then turned the coyness into something that made a man feel angry but helpless. Dannie André was another kind of woman.

  This different kind of woman had said presently, "We're being a little crazy, aren't we? Why don't we go inside and have some coffee?"

  When he departed, an hour later, he still had not touched her except to hold her hand briefly in farewell. But they had talked. Cautiously at first, then with mutual liking and trust, they had talked of things that must have been building inside each of them separately for a long time, crying out for release. It was remarkable how many dragons they had been able to destroy in such a short time. Both knew they would see each other again as soon as possible.

  At the school, when he got back there, Alice was being coquettish with the handsome young father of a student and did not even ask what had taken him so long.

  "Darling, how much time do you have?" Dannie said now.

  "Till eleven, at least. She's gone to a meeting at the church." Actually, he didn't have to be home when Alice returned. He could simply say he'd gone to give one of his fishermen a hand. Many of them worked their boats at night, and it was nothing unusual for someone having trouble to come around in the evening with a plea for help.

  Yes, even if he got home before Alice did, he would tell her he'd been down at the pier. Then if some acquaintance of hers mentioned having seen him walking through town, he'd have an out. He almost never used the Jeep when calling on Dannie. Everyone in town knew whose Jeep it was. "Then we have all evening!" Dannie was obviously delighted. "Do something for me, George? It's so wickedly hot tonight, don't you think? Can we go to Anse Douce for a swim?"

  George laughed with pleasure. "You're unbelievable. Do you know you're unbelievable? I was going to suggest that very thing. I even have my swim trunks on."

  "People in love."

  "Nothing else but. And I claim the right to ogle you while you get ready."

  "Sexy American. That's what you are."

  "Not until you came along, I wasn't. Believe me."

  In the bedroom, when Dannie had taken off her clothes, George sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her to him. For a moment he held her, touching and kissing her body, then he let her go and watched while she put on a white bikini that made her look not a day older than sixteen.

  "Nice," he said. "Beautiful."

  She put her yellow dress on over the swimsuit. "And already I want to be back here, so let's go before I change my mind, huh? You shouldn't have kissed me like that, I guess you know."

  Resisting the urge to do it again, George walked her out of the house. It had to be the hottest night in weeks, he thought. That might explain why he, too, had felt such a desire for a swim. All day long he'd been wanting one in the worst kind of way, as though some internal need were driving him to it. And this in spite of the torment caused by his bitten tongue.

  Or did the bitten tongue have something to do with the urge to swim?

  Why, for God's sake, did he keep biting his tongue, anyway?

  There was little danger of their being seen on their way to the cove. Having done it before, more than once, they knew every turn and easily avoided using the town's main street, where a few shops that sold drinks would still be open. Dame Marie had no electric lights except at the school, which had its own power plant. People stayed at home after dark, mostly.

  True, some of the town's teenagers hung around Pointe Pierre in the evenings. A shrewd shopkeeper there had invested in an expensive, battery-powered radio that could pick up music from powerful stations in Cuba and the States. But no one except seekers of privacy went beyond there to Anse Douce.

  The cove possessed an eerie beauty, though. On a night of full moonlight it was pure magic, with its castle-like cluster of coral boulders in the gully at one end. The moon would be almost full when it rose from the sea tonight, too. George felt himself tingling with anticipation as Dannie and he neared their destination.

  Anse Douce. Peaceful Cove. Sand and sea and that fairy-world group of rocks, with a half-mile crescent of tangled sea-grape bushes for a back drop. "Unspoiled" was the word. On reaching it, George stripped to his dark blue swim trunks and sank onto the sand. Removing her yellow dress, Dannie lay beside him in her white bikini. Both would have been naked except for the odd chance that someone just might come along.

  "You know something, George Benson? I love you."

  "And I love you, Dannie. Never forget it."

  They held hands and lay back, their bodies touching, heads turned so they could look at each other. The sea was almost flat. Waves barely an inch high whispered their way ashore. A few small shadows—crabs, no doubt—moved along the water's edge. The air was sweet with a heady fragrance of night-blooming jasmine.

  A feeling of total contentment came over George, and he let his eyes close.

  "What?" Dannie said.

  He opened his eyes, unaware he had spoken.

  "You'll do what?"

  "I didn't say anything, Dannie."

  She made a face at him. "George, you dozed off and began talking in your sleep again. To someone this time, it sounded like. Who were you talking to?"

  George frowned. "Woman, you're crazy."

  "Not me. One of these days I'll be ready with a tape recorder. Then you'll know who's crazy."

  George kissed her on the mouth. "I never said a word," he insisted. Better keep this light and breezy because, to be truthful, it scared him. "You dozed off and dreamed it. Come on, let's go swimming."

  "All right, let's." Dannie stood up, waited for him to do the same, then gave him a playful push that almost knocked him down again. She broke into a run for the water. But instead of racing in without hesitation, as George expected her to do, she stopped abruptly at its edge.

  George ran to her: "Hey! Is something the matter?"

  She took a backward step and looked up and down the deserted crescent of beach.

  "Nobody's here," George said, peering anxiously at her face. "You feel someone's watching us?"

  She nodded, obviously apprehensive.

  "Come on. There isn't a soul around. We'd have heard something."

  "I—suppose so. But I swear I felt—" Suddenly her mood seemed to change and she shrugged, then walked slowly, purposefully into the sea as though caught up in a wholly different compulsion. The top part of her white bikini glowed for a moment above the dark carpet of water, like an advance patch of light from a moon not yet risen. Throwing her arms over her head, she disappeared in a graceful dive.

  Filled with admiration, George stood waiting at the water's edge until she s
urfaced. Then it startled him to see how far out she was. In one way or another this woman was always surprising him, he thought. Striding in, he went after her.

  She did more than startle him then; she frightened him. Expecting to be able to overtake her with ease—after all, he had swum with her before and knew her ability—he found he could not. Seemingly without effort, she swam straight out to sea as though she had forgotten all about him and meant not to return.

  "Hey!" he yelled. "For Pete's sake, Dannie what are you doing?"

  She paid no attention. The white bikini was only a faint blur in the dark distance, half hidden by the water creaming out behind her swift feet.

  Something was really wrong, George knew then. What it might be he had no idea but, damn it, she couldn't swim that well. She just could not! He sucked in a breath and took out after her in earnest, aware that he would have to give it all he had. Luckily he had spent a good part of his life on or in the sea and was strong in the water.

  He caught her at last, a little surprised at how fast he actually was, and how much better his breathing was than he had suspected. Catching Dannie by an ankle, he pulled her back to him and got an arm around her. "Are you out of your mind, woman?" he yelled. "Do you know how far out we are? With sharks and all?"

  Suddenly she clung to him, gasping for breath, and he realized she was terrified. "Easy," he crooned. "Easy now, darling. Hang on to me."

  Slowly he helped her back to shallow water, lifting her in his arms for the last few yards to the beach. She was over her fright by then but was strangely subdued, not even looking at him. When he set her on her feet and took his arm away, she walked only a few steps and sank onto the sand.

  The moon was just coming up, pushing its light through the sea-grape bushes at the east end of the cove, silver-plating the whole beach as he caught Dannie's hands and drew her up to him.

  "Come on, love. This place doesn't feel right tonight. Let's get the hell out of here."

  "Yes. Oh, God, George! Let's go home!"

  Hand in hand they hurried through the brightening moonlight to where they had left their clothes. Then, quickly, they put the "peaceful cove" behind them.

  "Will you please tell me what happened back there?" George said. They were in bed together now, relaxed and content after making love. "Why in God's name did you take off like that, as if you meant to swim nonstop until you ran out of steam?"

  "George, I don't know."

  "Do you know I almost couldn't catch you?"

  "That scares me, too. You know I can't swim half as well as you."

  George held her in his arms. Their lovemaking had not been as satisfying as usual, but so long as he held her close to him he was fulfilled. He had never known this kind of nearness with Alice.

  "Something happened to us back there," he insisted. "You felt it first, but later it hit me, too. What was it?"

  Silence.

  "The damned cove must be haunted."

  Silence.

  She was asleep, George realized. And he had to get up, get dressed, go home. It had been a weird night. One he didn't understand at all.

  6

  A week later at two in the morning, startled by a timid knocking on the door of his room, Dr. Stephen Spence looked up from his reading. Earlier, he had brought a number of files up from what was now his office, to study the backgrounds of certain Azagon patients who, according to the staff, were "acting queerly."

  He frowned at the door in disbelief. A caller at two A.M.? In the nine days he'd been at the Azagon, the house had always tucked itself in by eleven. Usually quite a bit before that.

  "Yes? Who is it, please?"

  "Tom Driscoll, Steve. May I come in?"

  The old man must be ill again. Not a surprising development in light of what a physical workup performed by Steve, himself, had revealed. He had indeed suffered the stroke Juan Mendoza suspected. He had signs of arthritis in both hips. His blood pressure was high. He was a victim of stress, fatigue, and apparently even of some secret fear that was making all his other troubles that much worse. No way would he stop trying to fight back, though.

  Steve tossed the files onto his bed and hastily got out of his chair, reaching for a dressing gown to cover his pajamas and pushing his bare feet into a pair of soft leather moccasins he had cherished for years.

  It was odd. Despite what the examination had revealed, Driscoll had seemed to be more active in the past couple of days. He had been taking his meals in the dining room. He had even gone plodding about the grounds now and then. But for him to be out of bed at this hour, something new must be troubling him.

  Steve opened the door and the aging physician shuffled in over the threshold, nodding. "Thank you, thank you. I felt I had to talk to someone."

  "Of course, Tom."

  "It's cold tonight, isn't it?" It was so warm that Steve had his room air-conditioner on, though he disliked its hum as much as he did the throb of the power plant that supplied the electricity for it. Almost glad of the excuse to shut it off, he realized Driscoll was breathing wheezily, perhaps from the effort of climbing the stairs.

  Leading the old man to a chair, he wrapped a cotton blanket about him. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and said with a frown, "Tom, what's wrong?"

  "Steve, Paul Henninger has gone out again."

  "Oh?" There was talk around that the manager had disappeared a couple of nights ago without checking out or telling anyone where he was going. Someone needing him had been unable to locate him. When questioned, Henninger had insisted he knew nothing about it, and if it were true, he must have been sleepwalking. With so much else to do in taking over as director, Steve had not yet found time to dig for details.

  Since Driscoll obviously wanted to talk, this might be as good a time as any, though certainly unusual, to try for some facts. Not in a spirit of censure, of course, but with concern for Paul Henninger's well-being. The man might need help with some personal problem.

  "He's into the sleepwalking bit again, you mean?" Steve said, hoping to keep the discussion light.

  "I don't believe it is sleepwalking, Steve."

  "What is it, then?"

  "I don't know, but I am disturbed. Deeply disturbed. Believe me."

  This could be a long session, Steve decided, and hunched himself back on the bed to put his shoulders against the wall. "Why, Tom?"

  Driscoll's reply was almost a wail. "Because something very strange is going on here, Stephen!"

  "I'm not sure I follow you."

  "Follow me? What is there to follow? Tonight I couldn't sleep. This damned arthritis of mine was giving me fits. I was sitting by my window—not reading, mind you; no light was on—just sitting there, looking out at the night. It was after midnight. And suddenly there was our manager in the yard."

  Driscoll paused to get his breath. "It's dark tonight, you may have noticed—the moon was full a few nights ago—and I saw him for only a moment.

  But I refuse to believe he was walking in his sleep, Steve. Ah, no, no. He knew what he was doing and where he was going. I'm as certain of it as I am that I'm sitting here talking to you now at two in the morning!"

  "Can you be certain, Tom? I mean, do you know that much about somnambulism? I sure as hell don't."

  "He was not asleep," the older man insisted almost petulantly. "There is no way I can prove it, of course, but I'm sure of it. And then do you know what happened? No, of course you don't—you didn't see any of this. But only a moment after he reached the end of the yard and disappeared, someone else came out of the building, very obviously following him."

  Driscoll was enjoying his recital, Steve guessed. A captain without a ship to command, he probably had few chances to feel important now and cherished every one of them. "Who, Tom? Who did you see following him?"

  "That bright young man of ours, Juan Mendoza!"

  "You're sure he was tailing Henninger?"

  "My dear Steve, what else? Of course he was. Something very mysterious is going on here
, and Paul Henninger is part of it. Much as I like the man, what else can I think?"

  "Why on earth would Juan be following Henninger, Tom?"

  "Because of the way Paul's been behaving, of course. Oh, I know I hired him. I know he came with a good recommendation from that hotel in the capital where he worked. But there's something very scary going on here, Steve, and Paul Henninger is somehow caught up in it."

  The room filled with silence. After a moment Steve said, "Are they back yet, do you know?"

  "Who?"

  "Henninger and Mendoza, Tom."

  "Oh. They hadn't returned when I came up here. I was watching at my window. Unless, of course, they came in the front way. I wouldn't know about that."

  "Suppose I have a look. And if they are back, maybe we can have them up here for a few questions, if only to set your mind at rest."

  "Good, good!"

  Steve pushed himself off the bed. "Chances are they have nothing at all to hide, you know. You've never had a rule against leaving the place at night, have you?"

  "No. But where in the world would they go?"

  "I'll soon be back. Just make yourself comfortable, Tom." With a feeling of relief at being able to escape for a time, Steve strode out of the room. The house slept; he was sure of that before he had traveled the length of the upstairs hall. It was a spooky sort of place at night, with its doors closed and long corridors seeming to stretch away into an infinity of darkness.

  Why didn't the manager leave more lights on?

  The generator had to run anyway, didn't it? Or would more lights consume more diesel fuel, which had to be hauled over that god-awful road from Cap Matelot?

  He ought to ask some questions. Of course, he had already asked a few hundred, along with giving lectures, prescribing medication, conducting classes and seminars and all the rest of it, but there were too many aspects of the Azagon he hadn't dug into yet. There should be forty-eight hours in a St. Joseph day, damn it.

  Accompanied by the scuff of his moccasins, he went to the far end of the hall, listened at Mendoza's door, and finally rapped it lightly with his knuckles. When his knock brought no response, he knocked again, more forcefully. Then he dropped his hand to the knob, found the door unlocked, and opened it.