The Lower Deep

by Hugh B. Cave

  "I want to ask you a question that mustn't go beyond this room, Eddie. You understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I've heard a rumor—no, not quite a rumor, but a suggestion—that Ginny might have become friendly with a fellow at the alcoholics' place. Have you any thoughts on that?"

  "One of the patients, you mean?"

  "Well, yes. But he's a doctor, too."

  The boy shook his head. "It sounds just plain crazy to me. Ginny isn't old enough for anyone at the Azagon."

  "Where do you think she might be, Eddie?"

  "Lieutenant, I don't have any idea. Believe me, if I did, I'd go after her this minute, even if she wouldn't look at me!"

  The town soon began asking another question.

  Was it possible that Ginny Jourdan's disappearance might somehow be connected with the fate of the Ti Maman? The question was in no way frivolous, Steve Spence decided when he heard it. Nothing at this point ought to be ruled out. But it remained only a question, not in any way a clue.

  At ten o'clock Saturday night George Benson went to Louis Clermont's house to discuss some things that were troubling him.

  He talked about the series of dreams in which he seemed to be so strangely interested in swimming.

  He discussed the headaches or feelings of pressure that seemed to have become so much a part of his life now—a damned unpleasant part, he told Clermont when describing them again in detail.

  And with much shaking of his head, he wondered aloud about the perhaps related business of his wife's coming into his room at night in the apparent belief she could influence him in some hypnotic way even while he slept.

  True, George thought, the third complaint was perhaps outside the doctor's field, and maybe the dreams were, too, but at least he could discuss them with Louis Clermont as a friend. That was odd, too. Before the visits about the tongue-biting, he had scarcely known this man. There was just something about Clermont that inspired confidence.

  They talked about many things in the nearly three hours George spent in the doctor's home. The tongue-biting. The headaches. The parallels between George's complaints and those of Paul Henninger, and to a lesser degree others at the Azagon including the fellow who was missing after having been seen swimming far out at sea by the Dutch woman from the sisal plantation.

  They also discussed quite frankly, over a bottle of good Rhum St. Joseph, George's relationship with Alice, who was still missing, and their mutual liking for the man in charge of the Azagon, Steve Spence.

  It was, in short, precisely the kind of leisurely, all-purpose chat George had hoped for, covering events, personalities, and potential plans. And, of course, they sought an explanation of Ginny Jourdan's disappearance, but on that score came up empty-handed.

  Then, arriving home at one in the morning—Sunday morning—George found his wife at the kitchen counter, engaged in her usual all-hours pastime of making herself a cup of coffee.

  It was the first time he had seen Alice since his near collapse on the town's main street, Thursday evening, when he tried in vain to follow her. On that memorable occasion, he reminded himself, she had been more wraith than human being as she ghosted out of his reach.

  Chances were, he guessed now, she had gone somewhere with her current boyfriend, whoever he might be, and her teacher-friend, Germaine Doret, had been given a tale to tell if questioned. To hell with it. If he hadn't so foolishly tried to follow her from the house at the beginning of this latest adventure, he would have saved himself hours of torment.

  One thing puzzled him, though. Alice didn't look as though she had been somewhere on a lark, having a high time with a boyfriend. She wore no makeup and looked tired. More than tired—exhausted. Her mouth drooped. There were circles under her eyes. The look of transparency on her face made him wonder if she was ill.

  Even more significant, perhaps—the dress she had on was the same workaday thing she had been wearing when she left, and Alice was never, never careless about her appearance.

  Perhaps it was the drinks he had consumed at Clermont's that made him glare at her and say acidly, "You know something? You look like hell."

  She returned his stare in silence.

  "Do you mind telling me where you've been all this time?" George challenged.

  Turning away from him, Alice deliberately finished sugaring her coffee, then answered him on her way from the counter to the table. "Not really." Calmly seating herself, she gazed at him while lifting the cup to her lips. "Germaine and I went to Cap Matelot."

  "You and your girlfriend went to Le Cap? The last time you were with her, she had the flu, you said."

  "People get over the flu."

  "Oh, sure. So I'm supposed to believe—"

  "I don't care what you believe." Alice smiled one of her cold-fish smiles and shrugged at the same time. "I'm telling you we just suddenly decided we were both fed up with this stupid town and the school, and took off for a change of scene."

  George was about to say, "I can find out if you're lying, you know," but abandoned the idea before voicing it. Maybe he could, maybe not. In any case it would be a lot of trouble, and for what?

  Staring hard at her again, he said bluntly, "Are you sick?"

  "What?"

  "You look sick. Are you?"

  "No. I'm tired."

  "How did you and Germaine get to Le Cap and back? You borrow a car?" There weren't half a dozen cars in the whole town.

  "We took the bus."

  He had ridden those St. Joseph camions himself a time or two when the Jeep was in for repairs.

  Huge, lumbering monsters, built like oversize roller-coaster cars and wearing such glamorous names as Dieu Protege, Dieu Est Bon, Partout, Bon Dieu Bon, they were usually crowded with unwashed passengers, trussed-up live chickens, stems of bananas, and sacks of produce. Even half an hour on one guaranteed an aching back and a stomach upset by engine fumes.

  Was Alice telling the truth?

  He could find out, he told himself again.

  George poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned against the kitchen counter, drinking it, while waiting to see if Alice intended to continue the conversation. Finishing her own coffee, she went to the sink, washed her cup with maddening slowness, then turned and looked at him. It was a strange kind of look, as though she had ceased to be his wife and were a complete stranger regarding him with veiled amusement.

  "Well, I'm for bed," she said. "Good night, George."

  "That's all? Good night?"

  "I've answered your questions. What else is there?"

  "Nothing, I guess." After all, what would he learn by questioning her further? "See you in the morning."

  Or will I? he wondered.

  Alice went to her room, then to the bathroom. The nightly routine took longer than usual, but at last she returned to her bedroom and shut the door.

  Still in the kitchen, George reviewed their conversation while downing a second cup of coffee. Not much of what she'd told him was true, he decided. She might be bored with Dame Marie and the school, but never would she have gone to Cap Matelot on a pleasure trip—or any other kind of trip—dressed that way. Nor would she have gone by bus.

  Where had she been all this time, then, with Ginette Jourdan missing and the town in a turmoil?

  18

  Saturday night, while George Benson was having his heart-to-heart talk with Louis Clermont, Steve Spence was having one with the woman he loved. Ever since Clermont's last visit, Steve had pondered the Dame Marie doctor's suggestion—or had it been an echo of a Steve Spence suggestion?—that asking Tom to be an active member of the team again might be good therapy.

  To discuss it with other members of the staff, he had called a meeting in the Azagon's library. Now in Nadine Palmer's room, after a blissful session of lovemaking in which, thank God, he had been able for a while to put the problems of the Azagon out of his mind, he sought her advice in a one-on-one talk.

  "Yes," she said without hesitation. "Let him know w
e need him, Steve."

  "And if he drags in all that otherworld business about 'evil' again?"

  Lifting her head from his shoulder to direct a strangely intent gaze at his face, Nadine said very deliberately, "You really don't remember, Steve, do you?"

  "Remember what?"

  "What happened at the Brightman when you were out of it."

  The five missing days of my life, he thought. "No, love, I don't. So why, said he for at least the tenth time, won't you break down and tell me?"

  "I will when I think you're ready." Being in the right position for it, she pressed herself against him and put her mouth to his, kissing him the way lovers almost always kissed in the movies now—the way it always embarrassed him a little when they did, because, damn it, that kind of kissing ought to be a very personal thing and not a circus act. "Yes," she went on after the kiss ended, "when you're ready, darling. For now, just don't be too sure Tom Driscoll is wrong about there being something evil in this place."

  At nine o'clock Sunday morning, in his office, Steve gazed with admiration at Tom Driscoll and said quietly, "Yes, Tom, we need your help." His glance fell to a page of notes in his hand, compiled with Nadine's help. "Let me sum up what we have here—remembering, please, that some of it is only speculation, and all of it may change at any minute. You ready?"

  The older man nodded. He had been in his pajamas, apparently moping about his room in search of something to interest him, when Steve knocked on his door and asked if he would mind talking about the Azagon's problems. Brightening perceptibly, he had suggested they talk in Steve's office in half an hour. During that time he must have showered, had certainly shaved, and had donned the white shirt and slacks worn as a uniform by active males on the Azagon's staff. His eyes were alive again now and he looked years younger.

  "All right," Steve said. "First, Paul Henninger. This may be unfair to him, but I sometimes get the feeling he's no sicker than some of the others here. Than Morrison and Wynn are, for instance, with their nightmares and headaches and sleepwalking. And Lindo, before he disappeared. On the other hand, now that his pajamas have been found at Anse Douce, there can be little doubt he actually did walk there in his sleep that night and go swimming, as he claims. Though why he should have chosen such a roundabout way home from the red-light district where Juan Mendoza lost him, I can't imagine." Pausing, he looked at Driscoll for a reaction.

  "We have only Juan's word for it that he went to the red-light place," Driscoll said. "Anyway, Paul is no simple person, Steve. He was a good manager—a good man—until all this unsettling business began."

  "All right. We come now to your own belief that there is something evil at work here. In a metaphysical sense, I mean. Your belief that our threat comes from something more powerful than the voodoo people, who, if they're involved at all, are merely acting as intermediaries, so to speak. That is what you believe, isn't it?"

  "I think it's a possibility. Yes."

  "Well, what's been happening here at the retreat has also been happening in the town, to such persons as George Benson and Ginette Jourdan, who have nothing to do with us. And very likely there are others. The only ones we know about, remember, are those who are patients of Dr. Clermont."

  "Patients of Dr. Clermont. Yes. That has occurred to me."

  "And there's the uncanny disappearance of George Benson's boat, Tom, with three persons aboard."

  Driscoll took a folded handkerchief from a pocket of his white pants and patted his forehead with it while nodding.

  "And finally," Steve concluded, "we come to Juan Mendoza, who came here, he says, for a change of scene after a breakdown."

  "He has been a great help here with the patients, Steve. He set up a recreation program better than the one we had, with more of an emphasis on swimming. Improved our relaxation training, our assertiveness training. Yes, yes, a big help in many ways."

  "With his energy I'm sure he has been, Tom. But look at what he's doing now. Suspecting our cook may be involved in something shady, he has tried several times to tail the fellow when he went out suspiciously late at night. He was doing that when I saw him leave here Thursday night. Now, this time, the cook has come back, but Mendoza hasn't."

  Driscoll's face took on an expression of alarm. "Juan hasn't come back? What do you mean?"

  "I mean he's missing, like the others. Like Lawton Lindo who disappeared into the sea, if we can believe what the Langer woman says. And in town, Ginette Jourdan. Tom, I can't help but feel—"

  "Have you taken any measures to increase the security here?" Driscoll asked.

  "Well, yes. I've hired two men from town as night watchmen. We're leaving many more lights on at night. I'm even sedating some of the patients who've been complaining a lot about nightmares and—"

  "Which patients, Stephen?"

  "Morrison. Wynn. Two or three others."

  "With their approval, I hope," Driscoll said with a frown.

  "Of course. They understand our concern. At least they seem to trust me, and haven't been on the phone making reservations to leave here."

  "I understand several have done that."

  "Too many, Tom. But who can blame them? And if anything else happens here, don't be surprised—"

  Startled by a gentle tapping, Steve looked toward the office door. "Yes?" he said, resenting the intrusion.

  The door opened and he found himself staring in shock at a Juan Mendoza he had never seen before.

  It flashed through his mind again that Mendoza had come here from New York for a reason, and the reason was that he had suffered a nervous breakdown. Up to now it had been difficult to associate such a high-spirited young medic with such an illness, but now, suddenly, it was not.

  The man who trudged into the office and stood like a penitent before the desk was neither high-spirited nor handsome. He did not even look young anymore. The word Steve's mind fastened on was "zombie." Once, in Fond des Pintards, he had been taken by a peasant patient to a remote foothill plantation to see what his guide insisted were zombies at work in a cane field. They had been near-naked black men with gray skins and empty eyes, going through the motions of cutting cane—if not dead then surely drugged, poisoned, or somehow rendered mindless.

  Juan Mendoza was like them. Even the khaki pants and flowered shirt he still wore seemed different somehow, as though, to carry the zombie parallel a step further, he had been buried in them for a time.

  Quickly rising, Steve took his caller by the hand and led him to a chair. Then he stepped back, gazed at him with compassion, and said quietly, "What happened, Juan? Tell me."

  "I don't know."

  "You don't remember? You went out of here Thursday night about eleven—following Lazaire, I think. At least, he crossed the grounds just ahead of you. I saw you both from an upstairs window."

  Mendoza shook his head. "I don't remember leaving the house. I must have been walking in my sleep, as Henninger claims he has done so often."

  Oh, Lord, Steve thought. Not another one.

  "This is Sunday morning. Correct?"

  "Sunday morning, yes." Steve glanced at his watch. "Going on for ten o'clock."

  "I've been in Port Roche. That's all I know for sure. I woke up there yesterday afternoon, about six o'clock. No—I shouldn't say I woke up." The Cuban closed his eyes and began shaking his head, as if he might cry. "I was walking along the town's main street, it seems, and a man who knew me stopped me. When he saw something was wrong, he took me to his home. He used to crew for me when I was diving in the channel between Port Roche and Ile du Vent—a young fellow named Vendredi Malfam. I slept at his place last night, and he drove me here this morning."

  "Port Roche," Steve echoed. That coastal town a few miles to the west was not as large as Cap Matelot, but was a lot bigger than Dame Marie. "Is your friend Malfam here now?"

  "No, Steve. I asked him to come in, but he said he had to get back."

  "On a Sunday?"

  "He helps out at the church there in some
way."

  "So you haven't any idea where you may have been from Thursday night until a few hours ago."

  "I'm sorry. No."

  Steve glanced at Tom Driscoll, who had been sitting in silence, gazing fixedly at Mendoza and apparently hanging on the man's every word. "What do you think, Tom?"

  Frowning at the man who had just arrived, Driscoll said, "How do you feel, Juan, other than being puzzled by your loss of memory?"

  "As though I've been drunk. I can't believe I did any drinking, though. I haven't touched any liquor since I came here and found all of you dead set against it." Mendoza hesitated. "I have a fearful headache, though. Feels as if the top of my head is about to break off."

  "Welcome to the club," Steve said dryly. "A headache is our badge." He laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Well, all right, Juan. We can talk more about this later. For now it would seem you've had a touch of Paul Henninger's ailment, whatever that is. By the way, he did go to Anse Douce the night you lost him in voodoo town. Some kids found his pajamas there."

  "I owe him an apology, then."

  "Seems you do. Anyway, go on to bed now, hey?"

  Mendoza's gaze shifted from Steve to Tom Driscoll. "You two have been discussing my disappearance?"

  "Among other things," Steve said. "Tom feels up to tackling some of the problems again."

  "Well"—Mendoza's smile was wan—"now that I'm back, you can cross that one off the list, at least." And looking like a very tired man returning from an experience best left unremembered, he rose from his chair and walked zombielike out of the office.

  When he had gone, Steve tried the phone, found it was working, and made some calls. First he called Lieutenant Etienne at the army post to report Mendoza's return. Then he called Louis Clermont and George Benson at their homes.

  Learning from George that Alice Benson had also turned up, he was tempted to permit himself a small measure of optimism. With two of the missing accounted for, perhaps there was hope that Ginny Jourdan would also be found. And—if miracles were in order—even Lawton Lindo.

  He was optimistic about the girl. About the missing Azagon patient he was not, perhaps because he could never think of Lindo without recalling Elizabeth Langer's all-too-vivid description of that frightening black hole in the sea.