Grave Descend

by Michael Crichton

  Levett’s eyebrows went up. “You saw a shark?”

  “Yes.”

  “How exciting.”

  The boat came back toward the beach, near the promontory. Levett signaled to the boatman, who began throwing chunks of meat and garbage off the stern.

  “What are you doing?” McGregor said.

  “Attracting a crowd,” Levett said. Behind the boat the garbage bounced on the surface in the wake. The sharks began to appear, slashing up, grabbing the meat, diving again. There were at least six.

  “You needn’t be concerned,” Levett said, looking at McGregor. “This is only a precaution. We wouldn’t want you jumping overboard, and trying to swim away into darkness. Would we?”

  “It hadn’t entered my mind.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it.” Levett checked his watch. “It is now eight o’clock. Undoubtedly your friend is at the club. He will be dealt with. That leaves only you and your charming lady friend. We will think of some way to take care of you.”

  “No hurry,” McGregor said.

  “Indeed, no hurry,” Levett nodded.

  Roger Yeoman had watched the small boat go out to sea, and had seen McGregor aboard; though the boat was soon lost in the offshore darkness, he had some inkling of what was happening. He had gone back to the Cockatoo for a gun.

  The Cockatoo was loud and boisterous as he approached the front door; he went in and spoke to the bartender, saying quietly, “Trouble.”

  The bartender, mixing a rum drink, did not break his motion as he stirred. “Trouble?”

  “Yah, mon. Gun trouble.”

  “What you want?”

  “Forty-five and a rifle.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  The bartender sighed. “You going to need more than that.”

  “How come?”

  “Two boys looking for you tonight. One in the corner, other outside. Bet they got friends.”

  “How many you bet?”

  “Bet four.”

  “You know them?”

  “Never seen none,” the bartender said.

  “Where they setting for?”

  The bartender shrugged. “Out back.”

  Yeoman nodded. “Point them out.”

  The bartender nodded to one slim black man in a corner, with a scar along his cheek. “That’s all’s inside.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t bust up the place, mon,” the bartender said, as Yeoman walked off.

  “Try not.”

  Yeoman’s face was impassive as he walked up to the first man, hunched over a bottle of Red Stripe beer. Yeoman walked up until he was standing directly in front of the table, his fingers resting on the edge of the wood.

  “You want to see me?” he said.

  The man looked up, surprise in his eyes. “You Yeoman?”

  “That’s it,” Yeoman said. “You got friends?”

  The man frowned: “Friends?”

  He began to reach under the table. Yeoman, in a single swift motion, slammed the table forward, catching the man in the gut, doubling him over. Yeoman brought his fist down on the man’s head, hammering the jaw into the wood.

  The man flopped back in his chair; he was bleeding from his lip and obviously groggy. Yeoman stepped behind the table, took the revolver from the man’s hand, and hauled him to his feet.

  “Where we going?”

  “Outside, mon,” Yeoman said.

  One hand under the man’s collar, the other pressing the gun to his spine, Yeoman led the man out the front door. At the door, he paused, and shoved the man out first, into the bright light which formed a pool around the front door.

  The man fell, sprawling in the dust.

  A second man appeared from the bushes.

  “Back, get back,” shouted the man on the ground, but he was too late. Yeoman was out, with the gun pointed at the second man.

  “Unload,” Yeoman said.

  The man froze in midstride, then reached in his pocket.

  “Slow,” Yeoman said.

  Very slowly, the man removed his gun, and dropped it on the ground.

  “Lots of guns you fellows have,” Yeoman said. “Come over here.”

  The second man came hesitantly closer. When he was near, Yeoman swung the gun in his hand, catching the man across his face. As he fell, he swung once with his fist, to the solar plexus; the man grunted and lay still on the ground.

  Yeoman turned back to the first man, who was struggling to his feet. He kicked him in the jaw; the man fell back.

  He collected the second gun and slipped around through the bushes to the back of the club. The sound of the steel band inside would have hidden any noise from the front.

  In back was a small clearing and a half-dozen garbage cans. Three men used one as a card table. They smoked and played with quiet concentration.

  From the bushes, he said, “Hands high. Quick!”

  The men stopped, but did not move.

  “Hands high.”

  Slowly, they raised their hands. He stepped out of the bushes. They stared at him curiously, and then, at some unseen signal, they stood and began to move apart, drifting wide.

  “Hold it.”

  They kept going. Soon they would be too wide to cover.

  “Hold it now,” he said calmly. He was already choosing the one he would shoot. He picked the one on the left, the largest of the three.

  They did not stop. He swung and fired, catching one man in the leg. The impact of the shell knocked him off his feet and sent him rolling on the ground.

  One of the other two dropped his hands. Yeoman did not hesitate: he shot him in the chest. The man looked surprised as he was lifted bodily in the air, blood spurting over the third man, still standing.

  The man on the ground was reaching for his gun. Yeoman shot him in the head and swung back to the final man.

  “You want to play, too?”

  The man shook his head. If the events of the last few seconds had disturbed him, he gave no sign. His eyes were cold and watchful.

  “Turn around.”

  The man turned. In two strides, Yeoman was upon him, bringing the gun down across the back of his head. The man tumbled; Yeoman collected his gun and those of the others.

  He went back into the club and dropped the guns on the bar. To the bartender he said, “Better call the police.”

  The bartender raised his eyebrows. “Something happen?”

  Yeoman realized then that the blaring music had masked the shooting. “A little action out back.”

  “Who’s responsible? The police will ask.”

  “Damn if I know,” Yeoman said, and started out. “You give the place a bad name,” the bartender called, reaching for the phone.

  “No worse than usual,” Yeoman said.

  Back in the hills overlooking Silverstone, he felt disgusted and tired. He had kept one revolver, a small .38, but he didn’t have a rifle, and he needed one.

  He peered through binoculars. The house was lighted, but he could see no one. McGregor had said twelve hours, and Yeoman would give him that. Twelve hours would be midnight. It was now eight forty.

  He climbed into his car, and drove down to the road near the house, and waited. In the passenger seat alongside him was a gas speargun, and an explosive powerhead on the shaft.

  McGregor, he thought, might be grateful for a little early help.

  16

  MCGREGOR WATCHED AS LEVETT poured two vodkas, and handed him one. They were alone in the huge library; McGregor had looked for Sylvie, but could not find her.

  “I owe you my thanks,” Levett said. “You have been extraordinarily helpful.”

  “It was nothing,” McGregor said.

  “In a way, I find you fascinating,” Levett said. “I shall be sorry to see you go.”

  “I’m going?”

  “Indeed. We have prepared a fitting conclusion for this adventure. You see, the mob has been led a merry chase. But by now, they will recognize th
at you are the key to it all. They will be searching for you all over the island.”

  “And they’ll find me?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Levett walked to the window and looked out at the pool. McGregor could see that beyond the lighted deck of the pool, near the edge of the cliff, a man with a huge sack was throwing chunks of meat into the water.

  Bringing the sharks.

  “We must wait for daylight, of course,” Levett said. “The tides must be favorable.”

  “So I’ll wash up on the beach?”

  “Please,” Levett said. “Don’t be morbid.”

  “And Sylvie?”

  “I haven’t quite decided,” Levett said. “She is most charming.”

  McGregor shook his head. “It won’t work, Levett. We’ll beat you at this—”

  “We?” Levett laughed. “You don’t by any chance include Yeoman in all this. Poor fellow: he is lying half-dead in a ditch at this very moment.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Levett smiled, and sipped his drink. “Every exigency has been anticipated,” he said. “Believe me.”

  A large, heavyset black entered the room.

  “George, show Mr. McGregor to his room, and see that he doesn’t leave it.”

  George nodded. Levett smiled at McGregor. “I would like to talk further with you, Mr. McGregor, but frankly, this is going to be a busy evening for me.”

  McGregor was led away, up a broad stairway to the second floor. He saw and heard no one; he wondered if Sylvie and the others had been taken away.

  George grunted and pushed him into a small room with a bed and chair. A window looked out on the pool.

  “Lie down,” George said, “and shut up.”

  George was huge and unfriendly. McGregor lay down and shut up. He lay on the bed and looked at the ceiling and wondered if Levett were right about Yeoman. If Yeoman had been hurt, and Sylvie had indeed been taken away, then McGregor was in serious trouble.

  He did not like to think about it.

  Eventually, he decided he would have to find out one way or another. He looked over at George, who was lighting a cigarette.

  “You got another?”

  “Shut up,” George said.

  “Come on, just a cigarette …”

  George hesitated, then tossed one to McGregor. He was taking no chances, despite his size advantage. McGregor noticed that George was not armed—but then, he didn’t need to be.

  McGregor lit the cigarette and tried to inhale without coughing.

  “Nice place you got here,” he said. He got up and walked to the window, cigarette in his hand.

  “Lie down,” George said.

  “Just want to open the window,” McGregor said, opening the window, feeling the coolness of the night. Looking out, he could see the pool directly beneath the window, and beyond, the man still throwing garbage over into the ocean, to keep the sharks around.

  McGregor paused there and puffed on the cigarette. It glowed brightly.

  “Get away from that window and lie down.”

  McGregor did not move.

  “Get away, I said.”

  A huge hand grasped his neck and flung him across the room, to the bed. George stayed at the window.

  McGregor bolted for the door, twisted the knob in his hand: locked.

  George looked back and laughed. “Locked from the outside,” he said.

  McGregor went back to the bed and sat down. George remained at the window, staring out.

  “What were you looking at—”

  George stopped talking. He made a gurgling sound, and shuddered. Then he relaxed.

  And fell backward into the room.

  Protruding from his chest was the shaft of a gas-powered speargun. The spear had entered the chest and the powerhead had exploded, leaving a gaping hole. There was blood all over the window frame, and all over the floor.

  McGregor frowned. Yeoman was out there, all right.

  He searched George’s body, hunting the keys. No keys. He checked his watch: nine o’clock. He had three hours to get out, and take Sylvie with him.

  He tried the door once more. It was solid oak, two hundred years old. He might be able to pull the hinge pins and get it off that way, but it would be noisy, and it would take time.

  Another way: he looked out the window at the pool.

  How deep?

  He went back to the door, pressed his ear up against the wood, and listened. There was nobody outside, but faintly he heard a female voice, angry and shouting. It seemed to be coming from some distance—perhaps outside, or downstairs.

  Back at the window, he heard nothing. The man throwing garbage finished and walked off, dragging the empty sack behind him.

  He waited for several minutes. No one appeared at the pool; the deck was deserted. Also dry—and that presented a problem. If he jumped in, it would make a splash, but if he climbed out immediately, he would wet the deck, and leave a trail …

  He waited. And then, while he waited, he heard a female voice say, “That dirty bitch!”

  McGregor went back to George’s body. He took the matches and lit the bedspread and sheets. When they were burning well, he dropped the magnum spearhead blanks in a corner, and went back to the window.

  And jumped.

  17

  IT SEEMED A LONG DISTANCE, and when he finally hit the water, the splash was unbearably loud. Water was dashed all over the deck.

  He hung at the bottom, hooking his fingers through the drain, waiting as long as he could. It was ninety seconds by his wristwatch before he cautiously surfaced, coming up at the side.

  When he broke water, he saw no one. He waited, then looked up over the rim. The deck was empty: incredibly, no one had heard or noticed. From where he was, he could look directly into the library, where he saw Levett arguing with Monica Grant, or Barbara Levett.

  Barbara seemed quite upset. She was frowning, waving her arms, gesticulating wildly.

  McGregor waited, getting his breath. While he waited, he looked up at the window from which he had jumped: the room glowed a soft pink, and smoke was billowing out.

  Time to get moving.

  He climbed out of the pool, shivering as the cold air struck him, and crawled up to the windows of the library. Close, he could hear the argument move clearly.

  “—rid of the bitch,” Barbara was saying.

  “In good time,” Levett said, handing her a drink. Barbara, apparently, rated ice in her vodka.

  “I want her out of here.”

  “I assure you …”

  “I want her away from Harry.”

  “Barbara, dear. In good time.”

  “It can’t be soon enough.” She gulped the drink. “Now is too soon.”

  “You must allow Harry his little adventures.”

  “The hell I must.”

  “Barbara, you are being very—”

  At that moment, Elaine burst into the room. “There’s a fire upstairs,” she said. “In the room with George and the diver.”

  Levett, his huge bulk shaking, strode out of the room. The two women followed. The library was empty.

  McGregor opened the glass door, and slipped in.

  Upstairs, he heard shouts and running feet. As he looked about, he saw Barbara’s purse. It was sitting on the seat of a comfortable heavy leather chair. Quickly, he opened it and searched through.

  The gold derringer was still there. He checked the cartridges: there were six .22’s, all there.

  He dropped the gun into his pocket. Upstairs, there were shouts and coughs; the smoke was beginning to filter down, curling along the ceiling in a hazy blue band. Three gunshots followed—the blanks going off. There were more shouts.

  He went through the doors to the hallway, then paused to listen to the voices. He heard the loud hissing of a fire-extinguisher.

  If Sylvie were upstairs, she would be down by now. And if she were not—

  He ran, back through the rear of the house, to an area he had no
t been before. He passed servants’ quarters and then smelled food: he was coming to the kitchen.

  The lights in the kitchen were out. As he entered, he thought he was alone, but then he heard a giggle. Looking across the room, he saw two figures in an embrace.

  One was Sylvie. He had no doubt about the other.

  He slipped up behind the man and tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned, McGregor had a brief glimpse of Wayne’s startled face just before his fist struck.

  Wayne crumpled.

  Sylvie regarded him coolly. “You took your time.” She spat on the motionless body. “He is a pig.”

  McGregor took her arm. “No time to be sentimental,” he said, and led her outside. The rear lawn was cool and silent; the shouts and cries of the firefighters were muted here.

  “All right,” McGregor said. He pointed to a path around the side of the house. “Let’s get out of here.”

  At that moment, they heard a growl. McGregor turned and saw two cats in the darkness, bounding into the light.

  Fido and Fiona. And behind them was Elaine. She smiled grimly. “Leaving so soon?” she said.

  18

  YEOMAN HAD SEEN IT ALL. He had watched the huge black figure topple back as the speargun hit; a moment later, he had seen the fire, and McGregor’s body as he jumped to the pool.

  He waited then, wondering what to do.

  McGregor had specifically said twelve hours. He might not want help until then.

  On the other hand, he might not argue.

  Yeoman got into his car and drove down to the house. At the gate, he gunned the engine and rolled through, ducking his head as he passed the guard station. It was unnecessary: there was no guard. As he went up the drive, moving very fast, he saw a running figure, in khakis.

  The guard.

  Too late, the guard turned back and saw him. He pulled his gun.

  Yeoman stepped on the accelerator. A bullet shattered the windshield and then he felt a shudder as the car struck the guard, bouncing him off the front fender. Yeoman drove on toward the house. As he approached, he saw another guard on the front steps.

  With a machine-gun.

  Bullets shattered his lights and hit the tires; the car swerved crazily and smashed into a palm tree at the side of the road. Stunned, Yeoman crawled out as machine-gun fire raked the car and trees.