Grave Descend

by Michael Crichton

  McGregor paused inside the door, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He saw a large thick web, white with dew, in one corner; huddled back in the shadows was its owner. Another large black spider the size of his fist skittered across the floor. He stepped on it, and moved to the window.

  White Anglia was parking a few yards back down the road. The owner was getting out and moving cautiously toward McGregor’s shack.

  McGregor turned and moved toward the back. There was, as he had suspected, a rear door. He came into the backyard, littered with tires, beer bottles, old cans, which lay scattered in high wet grass.

  He came around the house, and moved down two others before slipping up to the street. He saw the Anglia, and the driver crouched in front of the shack McGregor had just left.

  McGregor waited until the driver began to suspect no one was inside. It was several minutes; the driver was being cautious. Then he went inside.

  In an instant, McGregor had moved around to the car, pulled the hood latch, raised it. He found the distributor and began pulling wires. Then, as quietly as he could, he shut the hood, went up to his bike, raised the kickstand, and turning it around, rolled down the hill.

  Halfway down, he started the ignition and roared off.

  So much, he thought, for tails. Wayne would have to get himself a better boy next time.

  And then he began to wonder: what if Wayne hadn’t hired this tail?

  The truck with all the equipment was parked in front of the Cockatoo. McGregor went inside and found Roger Yeoman sitting at a table with Sylvie; Yeoman smiled as McGregor came up. He was a huge muscular man with a calm, thoughtful expression. McGregor had met him ten years before, when Yeoman was just a skinny native kid with a passion for diving. McGregor had watched him grow into a powerful adult and a superb diver; his greatest asset was his calm. In ten years, McGregor had never seen him express anger, or fear, or excitement. Yet there had been plenty of opportunity. McGregor particularly remembered a dive five years before, when Yeoman had shot a moray eel. It was a bad shot, catching the moray too far back from the head to kill it immediately. Angered and wounded, the eel had attacked, gripping Yeoman around the left ankle with razor jaws. That would have been enough to put any diver into a total panic, but Yeoman kept his head, unsheathed his knife from straps on his other leg, and stabbed the moray until it released him.

  Later, it took both Yeoman and McGregor to haul the eel to the surface. It was nine feet long, and weighed nearly a hundred pounds.

  McGregor also remembered the night when Yeoman had found himself in a bar brawl. Yeoman had a new girl whose affections were apparently contested; around midnight another man arrived with three friends to settle the matter in the middle of the club.

  Yeoman had stood up and excused himself.

  McGregor had said, “Want some help?”

  “Just stand by, man, and keep it fair. Nickies ruins the sport.”

  Nickies was the native word for switchblades. McGregor stood, but made no move forward. Yeoman turned to the first of the four men and said, “Now what seems to be the hassle?”

  And then, abruptly, he swung and caught the man in the mouth. The man fell to the floor and rolled, clutching his face.

  Another jumped forward; Yeoman kicked upward and caught him accurately; the man screamed, bent over, and Yeoman kicked him in the face. As he fell, the next sprang from behind. Yeoman ducked, let him slide over his back, and when he fell to the floor kicked him brutally in the stomach.

  That left a final man, who had watched the proceedings with astonishment. Now he pulled a knife.

  Yeoman blinked impassively. “You want to put that away,” he said quietly.

  The man hesitated, then turned and ran.

  Yeoman quietly turned to the waiter, and gave him five dollars. He nodded to the three men writhing on the floor. “Clean the place up,” he said, and sat down at the table again.

  McGregor had said, “You didn’t waste much time.”

  “No,” Yeoman had said. “In a fight, you want to get on with it.” And then he had permitted himself a small, quiet smile.

  As McGregor sat down, Yeoman said, “The stuff’s all in the truck. I got the boat.”

  “Good. Ready for tomorrow?”

  “All ready, man. But Sylvie’s been telling me—”

  “It’s all true.”

  “Hanky-panky,” said Yeoman solemnly. It was his word to indicate a wide variety of derangements and interesting activity.

  “Looks that way,” McGregor said.

  “They setting you up for something?”

  McGregor nodded.

  “Better get out now,” Yeoman said. “We don’t need no hanky-panky.”

  “Well, no,” McGregor said, and ordered a beer. “But …”

  “You’re curious,” Yeoman said.

  “Something like that.”

  “The curious fish,” Yeoman said, “gets the hook.”

  “I know. But we can swim around the bait for a while, and sniff it. We don’t have to bite. Besides, they pay well.”

  He showed them the check for ten thousand.

  “Ho, mon,” Yeoman said. “That’s bait enough, right there.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I think,” Yeoman said, “that I should make some little investigations. Here and there.”

  McGregor nodded. Yeoman knew many people on the island, bizarre and unusual characters that a white man could never get to know. His “little investigations” had been useful in the past.

  “All right. And set the boat up for seven forty-five. I’m staying at the hotel, as it turns out they got me a room there.”

  Sylvie said, “I’m coming.”

  McGregor shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  She wasn’t happy about that, but she accepted it.

  Yeoman said, “More hanky-panky?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” McGregor said. He drank his beer and got up to go. “A couple of things you might look into,” he said. “Where the boat checked through customs, for one. And for another, who hired somebody in a white Anglia to tail me.”

  Yeoman nodded.

  Sylvie kissed him on the cheek, gave him a mildly threatening look—warning against hanky-panky—and he left for the hotel.

  Going back through town, he stopped in the gas station and made a telephone call.

  A crisp male voice answered: “Plantation Inn.”

  McGregor said, “Pan American here. We want to confirm a reservation for Mr. Arthur Wayne. He arrived yesterday and will be staying two weeks, until the twenty-third.”

  “One moment please.”

  There was a shuffle of papers. When the voice came back on, it was puzzled.

  “What was that again?”

  “Wayne, Mr. Arthur Wayne.”

  “I have that, but the reservation?”

  “Yesterday through the twenty-third. We have him down for—”

  “I’ll have to check with Mr. Wayne on this,” the man said. “There must be some confusion. We show that Mr. Wayne arrived a week ago, and will be checking out in three days.”

  “I see. Would you confirm that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call us back. Thanks so much.”

  He hung up.

  So Wayne had been here a week. That was nasty.

  And he was leaving in three days.

  That was even more nasty.

  He drove to the inn, parked, and checked into his room. If the reservations staff had been disapproving in the morning, they were plainly disgusted tonight.

  “You have bags, sir?”

  “Just under my eyes.”

  “Ha, ha, sir. The porter will show you to your room.”

  “I’ll find it myself, thanks.”

  It was a cheerful room, similar to Wayne’s overlooking the pool, but facing instead on the tennis courts. He ordered a rum Collins, signed for it—why not?—and sat down to think.

  What did he kno
w?

  First, that it was all phony. From start to finish, phony. Wayne had arrived early; the girl and the captain had been no doubt carefully instructed as to what to say. And the yacht had been sunk according to some kind of previous schedule.

  Second, he knew that the scheme was expensive. It stank of money: Wayne’s ten thousand to McGregor was nothing, compared with the rest of it You didn’t sink a two-million-dollar yacht without a very good and valuable reason. The stakes, whatever they were, must be enormous.

  Third, that things seemed to revolve around him. He had been called in, conned, set up. He was very important to the plan.

  Whatever it was.

  What could it be?

  He thought about that for a while, and got nowhere. But he expected to-have help soon.

  Because that was part of it, he was sure. They had moved him to the hotel to keep an eye on him. But they could do much more, now.

  They could further convince him.

  He sipped the rum drink, settled back, and waited.

  After an hour, when nothing had happened, he decided he had been too trusting—or perhaps too naive. They were, after all, clever people. They would be more subtle.

  He went down to the bar.

  Monica Grant was sitting alone in a corner, looking attractive and bored. Every once in a while, one of the studs would wander over; she’d give them the slightest dismissing wave of the hand, and they’d move on. Plantation Inn had a very discreet set of boys.

  When McGregor wandered over, she smiled. “Buy you a drink?” she asked.

  He smiled and sat down next to her. “Are you allowed to be seen fraternizing with the employees?”

  She shrugged. “Probably not.”

  He ordered two rum Collinses. “Why is that?”

  She said nothing for a minute, then, “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been worried.”

  “Pretty girls shouldn’t worry.”

  “I think something funny is going on,” she said. “Wayne talked to me this afternoon. Arthur. He said if the police came around, I was not to talk to them, but send them to him. Don’t you think that’s funny?”

  McGregor thought it was funny. He wondered why she was telling him. She wore a multicolored shift that showed a lot of tan. It was a very even, smooth, attractive tan.

  “Another thing he said was that I wasn’t supposed to talk to you.”

  “Oh.”

  But she just happened to be alone in the bar. He wondered how long she had been waiting.

  “At least, not about the Grave Descend,” she added.

  “All right,” he said, “let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about the owner, Robert Wayne. When did you first meet him?”

  Monica took a deep breath. “I never have,” she said.

  “Oh.”

  “Listen,” she said, “this whole thing is beginning to frighten me. I was working in New York until six weeks ago. Then I got a visit from a guy I’d never seen before, a young, well-dressed guy, who offered me twenty thousand dollars to go on a cruise. It was on the level, this guy said. The owner of the yacht wanted an attractive girl to be a sort of hostess while he took some business associates on a cruise to Aruba. He was an old guy, and all he would want me to do was smile and mix drinks, that kind of stuff. So I agreed.”

  “I see.”

  “I didn’t really have a choice,” she said. “When my husband divorced me last year, he left me with a two-year-old girl. I’ve been trying to support her … it’s difficult. Twenty thousand would make it a lot easier.”

  “Go on.”

  “So he gave me three thousand dollars, and a plane ticket to West Palm. Return ticket from Aruba. I was going to meet the owner in Jamaica. It seemed peculiar, but as I said, I needed the money.”

  “So you went.”

  “Yes. And now all this is happening. I don’t understand it.” She reached out and touched his hand. “I think Wayne has some kind of plan,” she said. “Some kind of very big plan. He’s just manipulating everyone, setting up his plan.”

  “Oh?” McGregor said.

  She frowned, “Didn’t you sense that? Didn’t you sense that it was pretty strange?”

  “I had inklings,” McGregor said. “But I needed the money, too.”

  She smiled slightly. “Then we have something in common.” Her leg touched his, just for a moment.

  “So it seems.”

  “But what are we going to do about it?” she said.

  “Play along,” McGregor said. “I’ll dive tomorrow; we’ll know more after that.”

  “I think it may be dangerous,” she said, “for you.”

  “Yes, it may be.”

  She took his hand and squeezed it “I want you to be careful.”

  “I will,” he said.

  He leaned over to kiss her cheek, but she turned her lips and gave him a long and resounding kiss.

  “This is such a fascinating island,” she said. “Will you show me the sights?”

  “It would be a pleasure,” he said.

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  She wore a short robe and smoked a cigarette, standing out on the balcony.

  “I’ve never known any divers before,” she said.

  “We can hold our breath a long time.”

  “Yes. A very long time.” She smiled. “I don’t suppose you’ve thought of moving to New York?”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t suppose I have.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  She finished her cigarette, came back into the room, and threw off her robe. She announced she was taking a shower and asked if he wanted to join her; he said no. As soon as he heard the water turn on, he began a swift search of her room.

  Purse first.

  Cosmetics, eyeshadow, makeup, old letters—and nestled at the bottom, a gold-plated, rhinestone-jeweled derringer. A tiny thing that shot .22 shells.

  Very pleasant.

  He moved to her suitcase. She didn’t need a passport, but she had to have some kind of identification …

  Beneath frilly underwear, he found it An airplane ticket from New York City to Montego Bay and return. Made out in the name of Barbara Levett. She had flown in a week before.

  And was due to fly out in three days.

  “Ouch,” he said, staring at the ticket

  Barbara Levett?

  That name was somehow familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. He puzzled over it until he heard her turn off the water in the shower. He slipped the ticket back into the suitcase and returned to the bed, where he began dressing.

  She was surprised. “You’re leaving?”

  “It’s best.”

  “But where are you going?”

  “Back to my room. I have to make some calls. After all, work starts tomorrow.”

  “I wish I could induce you—”

  “Sorry,” he said, and kissed her lightly.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  He gave her another kiss when he was dressed, and left, closing the door behind him. He waited in the hallway, then pressed his ear to the door.

  He heard her footsteps, then a click as she picked up the phone. Her voice was slightly muffled through the door, but he could still make out the words.

  “Room Four-two-three,” she said, and waited.

  That was Wayne’s room.

  “Arthur? … It’s me … Yes, yes, just as you said … Yes, I’m sure he looked. … All right … Good …”

  She hung up.

  McGregor padded down the hall, feeling cold.

  7

  IN HIS ROOM, THERE WAS a red light glowing next to the phone. He stared at it, and picked up the receiver.

  “Sir?” asked the operator.

  “There is a red light on in my room.”

  “That means you have a message, sir.”

  “Oh.”

  “One moment, please.”

  He heard the crackle of shuffling pap
ers.

  “Here it is, sir. You are to meet at the Big Bamboo at midnight.”

  “Meet whom?”

  “The message is signed Waldo. No last name.”

  McGregor nodded. Why not? He glanced at his watch; it was eleven thirty.

  “All right, thanks,” he said, and hung up.

  He went down to the parking lot, where Sylvie’s sports car had been left for him, the keys under the seat. As he got behind the wheel, he thought about Monica, or Barbara, or whatever her name was, and felt a little odd.

  And now Waldo.

  He thought back. He was certain he didn’t know anyone named Waldo. Nor, for that matter, did he know anyone who frequented the Big Bamboo. It was a dive two categories beneath the Cockatoo; every night it was packed with black cats, sitting around leering at the matrons from Ohio and the schoolteachers from Vermont while the band sang repetitive lyrics extolling the big bamboo:

  De big bamboo, goes all night long,

  De big bamboo, comes right along,

  De big bamboo, it is so strong,

  De big bamboo, comes all night long.

  Not your class establishment, but just right for the Waldos of this world.

  He drove back into town; the road was dark and at this hour deserted. Earlier in the evening, natives had lined the road on both sides, walking back from work or to bars, but now it was empty, stretching ahead in gentle curves, following the coast …

  He slammed on the brakes, squealing, as the animal darted out. It was yellow, some kind of large cat. It came to the center of the road and looked at his oncoming car; the eyes glowed bright green in the headlights.

  His car came skidding to a stop, and from the bushes, a young girl came running out. She was very attractive, as you might expect a young girl to be at midnight, on a deserted road, wearing a sequined miniskirt and blouse.

  “Fido!” she shouted, and grabbed the cat. “Bad Fido!”

  She cuffed it soundly, and put a leash around its neck. The cat growled, jaws opening in a lazy yawn, showing rows of large teeth.

  “Shut up, Fido!” the girl said, and cuffed it again.

  She came over to his car, sequins glinting in the light. “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said.

  “No bother.”