The Lower Deep

by Hugh B. Cave

  "Steve, come in!" The older man's voice was as bright as the streak of sunlight gilding the window. "Want you to read this letter I received yesterday from that fellow Fairleigh, in Dayton. You remember him, the one we almost gave up on? By heaven, he's not only got his job back since his stay here, he's been promoted to—"

  "Tom, I'm sorry." It was criminal to have to wipe that look off a face that for so long had seemed half dead, but Etienne was waiting. "I've just come to ask you to keep an eye on things for a while. I have to go out."

  Driscoll listened in silence while being told about the latest developments. Then, nodding, he said, "Of course. And I hope you're on to something."

  "I hope to God we are, this time." Steve touched the man's hand, then turned and walked out.

  But in the corridor he found himself face-to-face with horror.

  The thing had been waiting for him, apparently. About ten feet away, in a crouch, it looked like some kind of ape about to spring. But it was no ape. It was still a man, and a man he knew, though a twisted one now with a face that had become a living death's-head, mouth writhing and eyes aglitter with some hellish fire.

  Frozen in his tracks, Steve voiced a gasp. The creature responded with a snarl that dripped saliva. Then, instead of leaping, it began to shamble forward like a huge attacking crab, waving its malshaped arms above its head and jerking its twisted body from side to side on bent legs.

  One of those crab claws gripped a knife with a blade at least ten inches long. A butcher knife from the Azagon's kitchen, where this creature had been in charge. And Steve had nothing to counter it with.

  Then all at once the thing was no monster at all but Lazaire himself—the same middle-aged peasant he had always been, with the same very ordinary face. Still brandishing the butcher knife, though. The knife had not changed.

  "Lazaire . . ." The word shuddered from Steve's mouth as he took a backward step. And—click—he faced a nightmare thing again. It was like a special-effects trick in a movie, man into monster, monster back into man, man into monster again.

  But no trick. Not that kind, certainly. This ongoing metamorphosis was real.

  Watching the thing flick from nightmare to reality every few seconds as it lumbered toward him, Steve mastered his fear and sized up his chances. Retreat would not help. The corridor ended behind him only a few feet beyond Tom Driscoll's door, which Tom had closed when he left. Nor could he hope to get past that keen-edged butcher knife by darting forward, no matter whom those waving arms really belonged to.

  One move remained. In college he had played some football. Not enough to become good at it, but he knew the moves. Sucking up a breath, he dropped into a lineman's crouch and hurled himself at the twisted legs, praying the knife would not slash down and split him open when Ti-Jean Lazaire, or the hellish creature he kept becoming, was slammed off balance.

  But the thing did not lose its balance. A monster again at the moment he dived, it leapt aside with awesome agility and avoided the contact, at the same time bringing the knife down so swiftly that the blade missed Steve's eyes by barely an inch. Then when Steve scrambled wildly to his feet again, the creature was again Ti-Jean Lazaire, but again the glittering blade barred his escape.

  The gate at La Souvenance, Steve thought. The confrontation there. And that's why this is happening, isn't it? That's why this man keeps changing into something else that wants to kill me. The loa he told us about

  "Tom!" he yelled in desperation. "Tom, send for help!"

  But how could Tom Driscoll do that? He had no phone in his room. There was no way he could get past this thing and go for assistance.

  Driscoll did respond by opening his door, though, and by stepping over the threshold into the hall. Wide-eyed, he seemed to take in the situation—Steve against the wall near the corridor's end, the thing that kept shifting in and out of its nightmare image cutting off his escape. Suddenly the doorway was empty again.

  So much for that, Steve thought. But what more could he have hoped for? Tom had been ill. Tom was in his seventies.

  "Lazaire!" Steve spoke loudly but tried to put authority into his voice. There was no point in trying another headlong attack against such a creature. "Lazaire, listen to me! Put the knife down. You hear me? I'm Dr. Spence, the man you work for. Put the knife down and stop this!"

  But—click—Lazaire was the thing again, and the death's-head mouth widened in a leer that seemed to be all teeth. All huge white teeth, through which poured a river, now, of spittle and froth.

  "Lazaire, for God's sake get hold of yourself. Come to your senses—"

  "Yaaaaaah!" Thrusting the butcher knife out like a sword, the creature lunged forward.

  Steve threw himself violently aside and the blade passed between his left arm and his body, slashing only his shirt. Thudding into the wall behind him, it snapped off—at least, he heard the thud and what sounded like metal breaking. Jarred off balance, his assailant ended up on one knee, snarling with rage as it struggled to rise. And across the threshold of Tom Driscoll's room came Tom, with a weapon of his own.

  Like a mouse attacking a lion, the old medic threw himself on Steve's half-risen adversary and drove his weapon home. It plunged into the side of the creature's neck and wrung a shriek of surprise and pain from that slobbering mouth. Tom stepped back, seemingly awed by what he had accomplished.

  The thing that had been Ti-Jean Lazaire sank onto both knees, pawed for a few seconds at the weapon's handle, then sank to the floor and began another metamorphosis. With Steve and Driscoll standing there gazing down at it—Driscoll in total amazement because he had not seen it happen before—the face lost its death's-head look again. But this time with a difference. This time the change took place slowly.

  It took a full minute or more. Then the man on the floor was again the one Steve had talked to with Etienne and Dion in the library—Ti-Jean Lazaire, the Azagon's cook, lying there now without expression, as though peacefully sleeping.

  Steve bent over and touched his neck in search of a pulse. "He's alive, Tom. He'll come out of it." In fact, the wound hardly seemed severe enough to have stopped the fellow, and in search of an explanation, Steve more closely examined the weapon still protruding from it.

  With a frown, he looked up at the hovering face of Tom Driscoll. "Your letter opener, Tom?"

  "It was the first thing I saw."

  Silver, Steve thought. Wasn't there supposed to be something special about silver in dealing with afflictions of this sort? Like a silver bullet?

  "Tom, we'd better settle for emergency treatment and get him to the Sacré Coeur, don't you think?"

  Driscoll nodded. "Yes. But not you."

  "I'm okay." Steve glanced at the butcher knife on the floor near Lazaire's right hand. "He didn't cut me."

  "I don't mean that. I can see you're all right. I mean there are others here who can help me with him."

  "Tom, for God's sake—"

  "No, Steve. I'm quite capable of handling this. You finish your business with Etienne."

  "But—are you sure? I hate to leave you with all this. What if he gets violent again when he comes to?"

  "I'm sure he won't, Steve. He was possessed by something evil, but you can see it's gone now. We've driven it out."

  Or he was possessed by a loa, Steve thought, remembering the many times he had witnessed such happenings at voodoo services. "Tom, I don't think—"

  "Go, please," Tom Driscoll said firmly. "I want you to. Because this is only one small part of the problem, Steve, and whatever is happening here is gaining momentum in a frightening way. Please—can't you see that? We may be running out of time."

  27

  Etienne and Dion were waiting for Steve in the library, unaware of Lazaire's attempt to kill him. He saw no sense in taking the time to enlighten them. The three of them drove to Pointe Pierre in the army jeep and walked along the shore to their destination.

  The cove called Anse Douce was in its usual deserted state when they reac
hed it, looking so peaceful that Steve had difficulty concentrating on what he was there for. True, his Nadine had volunteered to drive Tom Driscoll and the injured cook to Le Cap after the Azagon staff had given him first aid, and another of the staff had gone along to lend a hand, but he felt as though he had walked out on unfinished business.

  Well, damn it, it was unfinished, wasn't it? And would continue to be until he heard from the cook's own lips an explanation of what had happened.

  Or would the man not remember what had happened? And if he did, would he be able to explain it?

  "The Gèdés are the mystères of death, m'sié. He of the five days misfortune is especially malevolent . . ."

  It was still short of ten o'clock by Steve's watch when, with Etienne in the lead, they hurried toward the boulder-strewn gully. He was surprised that the encounter with Lazaire had used up so little time; it had seemed a much longer ordeal. The morning was warm and bright, the sea calm.

  Etienne suddenly halted. "Hold on a minute. Isn't that something down there on the beach?"

  He turned off to go striding toward the sea's edge, and the others paused to await his return. Just above a thin line of dry weed at the high-tide mark he picked something up, then scanned the shore in both directions. Nothing else caught his eye, apparently. Retracing his steps, he handed Steve part of what he had picked up.

  "Belongs to one of your people, doesn't it, Doctor?"

  It was Paul Henninger's dark suit, rolled up around socks, underwear, and a pair of shoes.

  "This, too." Etienne handed over a tube of newspaper and some short lengths of string. "Must have been wrapped around something, wouldn't you say?"

  So Morrison was telling the truth, Steve thought. He did see Paul carrying something "quite long, wrapped in newspaper."

  "Let's have a look at that cave!" Etienne said sharply.

  In single file, with the lieutenant again leading and Steve bringing up the rear, they hurried down the sandy slope to the nightmare landscape of coral boulders. After a number of false turns, Etienne found the cave where he and Dion had discovered the name-pin.

  The sandy floor was littered with clothing now. Holding up a blue pantsuit, the lieutenant said, "I've seen this on George Benson's wife. Our 'Alice.'" Shifting his gaze to a pair of gray slacks being examined by Dion, he added, "And those are her husband's. At least, he's been wearing pants exactly like them."

  Steve had picked up a dress of pale yellow cotton. He said, "What about this?" and when the other two shook their heads, he dropped it and took up a pair of khaki pants and a multicolored sport shirt. "Juan Mendoza," he said without hesitation.

  "Seems to be two women, two men," Etienne offered when they had finished their examination of the abandoned apparel. "The two Bensons, Mendoza, and some woman we don't know. And Paul Henninger back there on the beach." His handsome face took on thought-lines. "You know if the army boat at Port Roche is in shape, Dion?"

  "It should be, sir."

  "It better be. Doctor, would you like to come along?"

  "I would," Steve said. "But that's a big piece of ocean out there. How are we—"

  "We know the Ti Maman was headed for Ile du Vent when she went down, and we know where Elizabeth Langer was picked up afterward." Etienne's tone indicated he had already done his thinking and reached a decision. "That should bring us close to what's going on. Let's find out what it is!"

  28

  George Benson was wholly bewildered. For a long time now he had been swimming, yet he was not tired. Not as tired, actually, as he would have been had he been walking that long. The part of his mind that he no longer controlled—that was owned by the naked woman swimming along just in front of him and Dannie was telling him how to breathe and how to conserve his strength.

  It was feeding him a steady flow of thoughts, too, in response to the many questions his part of his mind kept propounding. In effect, the back and forth flow of thoughts in his head was a kind of conversation.

  "I don't know how I'm able to do this," George thought.

  "The human body can endure a lot more than you ever dreamed of, George," came the answer. "It's a remarkable instrument, really. Did you know, for instance, that men have endured temperatures of almost a hundred sixty degrees Fahrenheit for quite a long time? Even worked in such heat without any special clothing or protection? Did you know that a woman in Illinois still lived after lying unconscious a whole night in deep snow with the temperature falling to eleven below zero? The prolonged cold turned her eyes to ice but didn't stop her heart, George. Think of that. When she was found, her body temperature was down to sixty-four degrees, yet she lived."

  "Just an unusual case," George protested.

  "No, George. Not really. I could tell you about a group of ninety men who lived on the Greenland Ice Cap for three months before they were found. The temperature averaged forty degrees below, and they had no special equipment or clothing, yet they survived."

  "Well, I couldn't. I know I couldn't."

  "Yes, you could. It's in the mind, George. You think you have to live according to certain rules, so that's how you live, never knowing the rules can be broken if you have the will to break them. I suppose you think you must have food to go on living. Do you?"

  "Of course."

  "You're wrong. When I began my training I was told about a woman in California—just dieting, mind You—who existed on two quarts of water a day and vitamin injections twice a week for nearly five months, George. And she was in better condition at the end than when she started." George did not reply.

  "You don't really have to sleep, either, George," Alice told him. "You think you do, but you don't.

  A man in Hawaii tested himself not long ago and was able to stay awake for two hundred eighty hours. Think of that, George. Oh, yes, the human body can endure much more than most of us imagine. Just try holding your breath now while you swim. Don't breathe again until I tell you to. Remember what I told you in your sleep about the Australian desert frog? The one that can live underground locked up in hard clay for two years without breathing, then be as good as new when the rains fall and soften the clay to release it? Remember that, George?"

  George tried holding his breath and discovered to his astonishment he could hold it for a long time. When at Alice's command he desisted, she told him matter-of-factly, "That was pretty good. I'd say it was about ten minutes. Wouldn't you?"

  "You're crazy. No one can hold his breath for ten minutes!"

  "Oh, but people can, George. There's a man in California, a Robert Forster, who held his breath underwater for more than thirteen minutes, and he didn't have the training we've had. With the mental preparation you and Dannie have been put through, you'll do better than that. Lots better. Of course, neither of you knows much about the training. Hers took place at school, and most of yours took place while you were asleep. But you've both had it, believe me."

  "You mean Dannie can hold her breath, too?"

  "Oh, yes. Better than you, I expect. She has been a good pupil, but you, George, you've been damned difficult, let me tell you. You've resisted my teachings from the start."

  "Dannie has been a good pupil? What the hell do you mean, Alice?"

  "Oh, she's a very trusting type, really, and was easy from the word go. When I learned she was your lover and decided to recruit her, I only had to make friends with her at school. She's the kind who hates to let a friend down, George."

  "You bitch!"

  "People are different, George. Ginny Jourdan, for instance, was even more of a problem than you. You were just stubborn and unyielding despite the headaches and nightmares and biting your tongue. Ginny . . . do you know what she really did, George? She invented a whole new personality and retreated into it. Amazing. But we should have anticipated something like that, I suppose. According to Dr. Clermont, she's always been a very special child."

  "You brought Ginny out here like this? To wherever we're going?"

  "You asked me that before, Geo
rge, and I told you. Yes, we brought her. We didn't have to, I expect. She could have come by herself. Some do, and are met when they arrive."

  "Lawton Lindo would have made it by himself if the people on my boat hadn't seen him?"

  "Well, no. We don't think he would have. He was really not ready and was very tired."

  "The whirlpool didn't kill him, then?"

  "Or even take him down. He just drowned, poor man. Had the whirlpool taken him down, you never would have found his body, George. You've never found the bodies of the three on the boat, you know."

  "Was it a whirlpool that caused my boat to disappear?" George demanded.

  "Well, in a way. I suppose you could call it that."

  All of this was very hard to understand, George thought with the part of his mind she had not taken over yet. The mind itself, for instance. Was she deliberately leaving him a portion of it to work with so she could amuse herself by exchanging thoughts with him? Or was he somehow still resisting her and denying her the total domination she sought? He'd been a difficult conquest, she admitted. Maybe he could still hope.

  How long had the three of them been in the water now? Two hours? Longer? They had left the beach about five, and the sun was now maybe seven o'clock high. It was not possible to estimate how far they had come, though, even if he knew how many miles an hour a long-distance swimmer might average. He didn't think many ordinary swimmers could equal the easy, effortless pace set by Mice. As he swam on, moving his arms and legs in measured rhythm, he looked around.

  Dannie was just behind him, matching his forward progress with no visible struggle. Alice was a few yards in front. Otherwise the sea was empty and almost unbroken, just a boundless blue expanse of gentle heavings with only an occasional whitecap to mark a breaking wave crest. This, he reminded himself, was the north coast of St. Joseph, in the Caribbean. If they were indeed swimming west-northwestward, as the position of the sun seemed to indicate, they would pass between St. Joe's mainland and the old buccaneer isle of Ile du Vent in the direction of Hispaniola and Cuba. In Cuba the United States Navy had a base at Guantanamo, no?